The Last Manticore
by mikitta
Summary: Witcher Arek of Malleore, the last of the Manticore school, finds himself recovering from grievous wounds during the third Nilfgaardian war. He's lucky to be alive thanks to Micah, a healer with her own secrets. Can Arek and Micah stop the Church of the Eternal Fire before it destroys them all? Rated M for romance and violence.
1. Prologue

**Thank you omniGamer101 for your help with edits!**

 **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

* * *

Screams of dying men rent the air and torrential rain pelted the battlefield. The clashing armies of the invading Nilfgaardians and the Temerian/Redanian alliance had caught the Witcher, Arek of Malleore, and the twin sister sorceresses, Nalia and Niah, between them in the little hamlet of Grey Bog. It was nothing more than a trampled ruin now. The village was ground to kindling under the skirmishing feet of victors and losers alike. Flames licked through the air as shops, stalls and homes burned. War was never about kings,land and broken treaties, it was about the death and suffering of the impoverished people upon whose lives it was waged.

Mid-spell, Nalia was about to summon a portal to whisk them all to safety when a crossbow bolt skewered her throat. Niah screamed and caught her sister as the woman fell. The witcher tried to parry another sword blow from one of the Redanian patrol that had them pinned in the burned out shell of a peasant's hut and failed. Redanian steel smashed into his ribs, staving in his mailed jerkin as if it wasn't there. The pain nearly blinded him as he parried the swinging axe of another soldier.

"Niah, get us out …." he gasped.

"I'm trying, Arek!" She had just begun her incantation when a third soldier sank his axe into her skull, silencing her permanently.

"NOOOOOOOOO!" Arek roared, distracted from the fight for a brief moment. He snarled at the advancing Redanians and became a whirling madman. He ignored every blow they landed as he decimated the patrol, killing them to the last man. Their gore covered him and mingled with his own blood, washing his body in crimson rivulets. Too late he heard the Nilfgardian creeping up behind him, slashing him from shoulder to hip with a falchion. The soldier thought himself clever until he received the Witcher's blade through his throat. Arek fell to his knees before the lifeless bodies of the two women. The world went black and he knew no more.


	2. The Doctor

More Editing, thanks to omniGamer101 :)

* * *

 _Put our backs to the north wind. Hold fast by the river._

 _Sweet memories to drive us on for the motherland._

 _Jethro Tull, "Broadsword"_

* * *

Ravens, vultures and less savory creatures feasted upon the dead amidst the bloody carnage of Gray Bog, a battlefield abandoned by men for fresher ground on which to kill each other. The sounds of fighting had dimmed before daylight, the armies moving farther west along the Pontar toward Novigrad, when Micah had first set out to help those who still lived. The small woman was weary. She was weary of the mud that clogged her boots and of the constant, weeping rain that created the mud. Most of all, she was weary of the war that dragged on year after year until the people who lived here were broken under its grinding heel.

She turned over corpses that were barely held together by their armor, inspecting the dead who were no longer in need of mortal services and sighed. It was the living, those who might yet be saved and given succor who were her quarry. The armies had moved north in search of ground that had not yet been trampled, the grim remains of the night left to poison the earth. Despite what others said about the cartels having an iron fist around Emeir's throat and Radovid's balls, Novigrad would soon fall. The question wasn't ever IF, it was whether there would be anything left of Temeria and the No Man's land of Velen afterward.

She spotted the smoldering remains of a lone hovel surrounded by fallen soldiers sporting the armors of three different armies. Redanian Eagles lay entwined with Nilfgaardian Black Suns and Temerian Lilies, equal at last in their final repose. Micah led her mule toward the burned out hut, placing her feet carefully amidst the rubble. Her heart grieved for these men. They had families, most of them, people who cared for them, regardless whose call to arms they had answered. Micah reflected upon the folly of coming back here alone without companions to help her, but it had been an unavoidable risk. Every able body at her compound was engaged in tending the wounded men they had brought in earlier today.

The woman couldn't explain why she had needed to make one last trip, but it had been a driving impulse, prompting her to venture out against the better judgement of her people. The scorched shelter beckoned her inside to discover the large form of a man covering two female corpses. 'Twin sisters, by the look of them, and magic users' she thought. One had an arrow protruding from her neck while the other had an axe embedded in her skull, both stiff with rigor mortis and starting to bloat. The man was neither stiff nor bloated, which struck her as odd.

Micah put a hand out to touch him. He was covered in congealed gore, and she couldn't tell how much was his own blood and how much was from the bodies that lay in a decimated ring around the trio. The back of the man's chain gambeson had been torn open in a single, mighty blow, revealing the ragged gash that scored him from one shoulder to the opposite hip. 'He must have given his last breath to defend them.'

War time love was a troubadour's delight, but as a healer, all she could feel was searing grief for the little group. They were dead, but perhaps these three deserved something better than corpse-eaters desecrating their remains. Micah shook her head as she positioned her cart, laying out a flat sheet of wood that could be affixed to the mule to help load up the bodies. She rolled the man to his back on the wood but was not fast enough to avoid the gloved fist he suddenly clamped around her throat. For an instant, she stared into the glaring yellow cat-like eyes of a witcher.

"St.. stop" she choked out, clawing at the hand that was crushing her trachea. The man's eyes closed again and his hand fell limp. She shook off her shock and gasped precious oxygen through her abused airway. She felt him pull in a shallow breath as she placed two fingers against his jugular. It was faint, but there was the impossibly slow drubbing of his pulse against her skin. She surveyed another significant wound across his belly and was amazed he hadn't been eviscerated.

Using stones scavenged from the destroyed hut to stabilize the two wheeled dray, Micah positioned Soophie Bell, her mule, to help her drag the man into the wagon bed. He was over 6 feet tall and at least two hundred and thirty-five pounds in his armor. She struggled to align the board so Soophi could haul it forward without it getting caught or threatening to dump him off, but somehow, they managed the transfer without killing him outright. By the time she had him settled into the cart, Micah was trembling with fatigue and thoroughly bathed in blood, mud and the vile concoction of filth and gore that saturated the ground.

Not pausing to rest, she went back for the women. They must have meant something to him, and she wasn't about to allow her patient to suffer fresh agonies wondering about the fate of their bodies. Moving the twins proved to be a far simpler task as she had no need to concern herself with worsening their condition. Though both were taller than Micah, they were slender and she could simply haul them into the dray cart with brute effort.

At last, she removed the blocks and got the mule resettled in her harness then looked further into the field where she could see the hunched forms of necrophages slinking through the gathering dusk. The sun was close to the horizon and Micah knew she only had an hour to get home before darkness fell. She had transported twelve wounded soldiers, four traumatized widows and three orphans from the battlefield to her small compound earlier that day. How the armies managed to miss it was only due to Divine grace coupled with no small effort on her part to conceal things as best she could.

Hoping her final patient would survive the journey, Micah led Soophie Bell toward home. She didn't know whether it was her imagination, but the smell of the rotting carrion around her seemed to intensify and she had the eerie feeling something was watching closely as they trundled away, leaving the decimated troops to their silent reverie.

* * *

Upon arriving at the estate, she had Hambeck, her hired hand, move the women into the far end of the stables. It was a suitable morgue and the women were not its only residents. Two of the widows were busy with a soldier that had died of his wounds earlier in the day.

"Gots two pretties here fer ye," he wheezed. "T'is sad, they's ben caught in th' midst o' that hell last eve." The widows sighed and motioned for the bodies of the women to be placed on the ground, to await preparation. Hambeck returned to his mistress's cart.

"Ooohr, he be a biggun, miss! Yer sher'n'certain he's a breather?"

"Yes, Hambeck. He's alive," replied Micah. "I need help to get him in the house. Not sure where I'll put him, all the beds but mine are full of injured soldiers."

"Cor, I's sleeping on a pallet in ther straw mesef, else I'd offer him me own bed."

"I know you would. You're a good man, Ham." She snapped her fingers, "I know! I can sleep upon a pallet as well as you. We'll take him to my room."

Hambeck wasn't fond of the idea. He had often fought to ensure she had a retreat so she wouldn't overtax herself. "Sher an yer as kind as the sun is bright, gel, but ye need yer rest! I've seen ye labor long over many a sick an' injured this day!"

"This man needs a soft mattress and clean sheets more than I. Have one of the boys take care of Soophie Bell and put the cart up. It needs to be cleaned and Sooph needs a nose bag of grain for her hard work today."

"Aye miss. Les get this big un in th' house, eh?"

Together, the young woman, two stout boys and the old man managed to get the warrior into her dining room, which she had converted to a surgical prep area.

"Call for Dossie to bring fresh sheets and some very old ones. I know we have some in that third floor closet. We'll make bandages out of them and get him cleaned up. For now, we need to put him on the table so we can tend his wounds. Johann and Kimble should help you get his armor off. Strip him bare and cover him with a sheet. I'll see to cleaning myself up and prepare for surgery. Have my suture kit ready. I am sure we have a few sterilized ones left, don't we?"

"Aye, that we do, miss. Had the older bairns seeing to the cleaning and wrapping and readying them in that fancy pressure steamer of yers."

"Good. I have a feeling a lot of this blood is his own. Remove everything he's wearing and clean him up so I can see what damage has been done. It's chain and leather, so we at least won't need a can opener."

She headed for the bathing grotto, a fortunate feature of the property sporting a cold waterfall spilling into a deep pool that abutted a natural hot springs within the deep cave. She looked longingly at the hot water, but knew she didn't have time for a good soak so she settled for a chilly shower. After scrubbing her skin pink and donning clean, serviceable trousers and tunic, she returned to the dining room.

"Let's see what we have here." She murmured to Hambeck as she inspected the injured man. Her servant had done a good job cleaning her patient and preparing him for surgery.

The witcher was a truly magnificent specimen, despite the assorted old scars and newer nicks, cuts, bruises, rents and contusions covering him. Micah's main concerns were the spreading bruise on his right side, the slice across his belly that had nearly spilled his bowels, and the laceration across his well muscled back. She would be hours stitching him back together, but the injury across his stomach would have to be first so they could turn him.

After scrubbing her hands and arms to the elbows in a basin of water that had been suffused with a quarter as much iodine she said, "Let us proceed. He seems insensible for now, and that is a blessing. I would rather not give him poppy if we can avoid it."

Micah worked steadily on his abdominal wound then moved to a smaller one near his groin after she decided to limit how much they had to move him around. The man moaned weakly several times but never regained consciousness. She counted her stitches when she was done.

"270, Ham. I think that's a record and must qualify me to apprentice in the tailor's guild, don't you think?"

"Aye, miss, and right steady and neat stitches they be, too. I would say as you could get at least a journeyman's ranking there."

"Hambeck you flatter me! But I think when I'm done with his back I should be offered a meritorious master's letter!" laughed Micah wearily. "Hold him steady and we will turn him."

She applied more cleansing solution with a clean rag and manipulated the lips of his flesh, figuring out the best way to put him back together. Thank God for the man's chainmail or his spine would have been transected. She labored for more than an hour and placed another 500 neat stitches.

"On to the rest. I want to bind those ribs. Didn't lady Skiban have a corset that might fit him? We'll have to find that. It will do nicely to keep bandages in place and stabilize those ribs."

She worked steadily and finally inspected her handiwork. Micah carefully painted iodine tincture around his sutures and, with the help of her manservant-turned-nurse, she arranged the corset carefully. It didn't go entirely around his chest, but it would serve until his wounds were healed enough to endure more secure bandaging.

"Well, my fellow, if you live through the night, you will have to thank me for saving your manhood for you, amongst other things. Let's get him moved to my bedchamber. Ham. I think Molly has laid a pallet for me in there so I can check on him through the night. Once he's installed, however, I am going to make the rounds, see how many we managed to save today."

She looked bone tired and weary to her soul. Hambeck didn't know what kept her upright, but he had a great deal of respect for his mistress, strange as she was with her odd notions and ideas. He figured she must have some magic to keep her going when a normal person would have collapsed under the strain. But she never faltered.

Micah looked very ordinary, which belied the steel in her spine and her clever mind. Auburn hair with strands of red and gold randomly scattered throughout the slightly wavy mass would fall to her elbows had she left it unbound, but the thick plait that swung between her shoulder blades was far more to her liking. Her eyes were unremarkable, but still attractive as they snapped with intelligence in their cinnamon and spice depths. Next to many women and most men, she was petite. Even Soophie Bell looked large next to her, and that mule was only an average fifteen hands at the shoulder; a height the top of the woman's head barely brushed.

If her looks were common, her origins were a shrouded mystery. She had been brought home by Squire Skiban on one his merchant trips when the estate was still producing good yields of high quality hops. Unable to speak or understand any elven, southern or nordling languages familiar to the Squire or his wife, it hadn't taken her long to pick up the common tongue and prove herself useful to the good people who had given her a home. The Squire's lady, a childless but loving woman, had by that time adopted the girl as a daughter. She had spared no expense in hiring tutors to ensure she had an adequate education, consisting of classical literature, history, and geography. Micah had also proved herself competent to manage a successful agricultural estate and the Squire had trusted her implicitly. When she showed high aptitude for healing, she was sent to Oxenfurt to study for a medical doctorate at the academy.

She never seemed to age. Micah had come to them when Hambeck was a much younger man, and she looked not a day older than when the Squire had first ushered her into the stable yard. Even after she could communicate in their language, Micah was tight lipped about her origins, and whenever the subject was broached, she quickly changed it or walked away. Whatever her story, Hambeck knew she had a good heart and worked her fingers to the bone aiding and providing succor to the villagers hereabouts. She never seemed to use magic, though she did have a fair knowledge of alchemy. So far they had been fortunate to avoid the witch hunters from the Eternal Fire Church. If those zealots knew how long she lived without showing a sign of it, she would be burned as a sorceress for sure.

* * *

Micah's bedchamber was modest, and thankfully, on the ground floor. The Squire and his lady had both died of old age some six years ago and, being childless, had named her their sole heir. Since then, she had decided to turn her estate near the township of Gray Bog into an orphanage and hospital, taking the head butler's quarters as her own and converting the master suite into a children's ward. Luckily, she didn't have a head butler that would have been offended by a wounded man being treated therein.

Someone had thought to leave fresh, sterilized water in a covered basin on the stand along with a pile of old, soft cloths that had been torn from the estates plentiful supply of sheets. The witcher lay beneath a blanket and she gazed at him, taking in black hair that was winged with a touch of gray at the temples, a broad, high brow and an aquiline nose. Dark stubble brushed his strong jaw and blended into the short beard that framed full, finely chiseled lips. An old scar traced over his forehead, across the bridge of his nose and down the opposite cheek. Rather than marring his masculine beauty, it gave his face a fierce character she found appealing. What terrible foe had left that memento, she wondered, as she pulled up a stool to the bedside to check the man for fever. He was warm to the touch, which worried her, and as her small hand lingered on the sharp curve of his cheek, she saw his lashes flicker on his cheek as they rose to reveal golden, slit-pupiled eyes.

"Well hello there." she spoke softly in a low, soothing whisper. "Welcome to the land of the living, though it was close run."

He blinked, inhaling sharply through his nose, and tried to sit up. Pain shot through his whole body in a blaze of agony.

"You must try not to exert yourself. You were terribly wounded. Please lie back." With gentle pressure, she urged him back toward the straw tick mattress. "Just concentrate on your breathing. That's it, in, out. Steady."

"Who ..." he croaked in a voice unrecognizable as his own.

"My name is Micah Von Winslow. I found you on the field and brought you here. You are safe now. Your wounds are dressed and you are to worry only about getting well." Her lips lifted in the barest smile. Her accent was odd, like nothing he had ever heard before, but it held a pleasing cadence that calmed him.

"What shall we call you, witcher?" Her small hand grasped his much larger one resting on top of the covers.

"I'm Arek of Malleore. There were two women with me..." He read the answer in her eyes as she looked away from him.

"Yes, Arek, there were. I am so sorry, they were slain in battle. There was nothing I could do for them."

Arek felt his heart tear in his chest. He wanted to rage and scream, but he could barely manage a whimper. The woman's cool hand came back to rest on the side of his face and he turned his cheek into that solace as his eyes screwed shut in pain.

"Are you thirsty? I am afraid I can only offer you water and something to ease you for rest. If you are in excessive pain I can help you with that, though sparingly." She added. "Too much poppy would not be a good thing at this juncture, as much as you might wish some surcease."

"I wish you would give me a dram of it undiluted." He croaked out.

"Arek," she said, and his eyes rose to hers, "I know this seems like shabby comfort now, but please don't give in to despair. I am so very sorry for your loss, but you are alive. Desiring your own death does not honor the dead."

Letting out a heavy sigh, Arek relented. "No poppy then, though a drink would be nice." His gaze drifted away to the ceiling. "Did you happen to retrieve my satchel? I have witcher potions that will help."

"There was nothing but your armor attached to you. I found no satchel nearby, at least not that I remember."

"Damn." He paused, his expression growing thoughtful for a moment, as his gaze turned back to her. "Could you gather some ingredients for me so I can brew something?" Noting her sudden scepticism, he quickly added, "It will speed my healing."

"I can do that if you tell me what you need." she pondered, "If you give me instructions, I could brew it for you."

"No, it would be too toxic for anyone but a witcher to touch." She nodded and moved to his side, propping him up to sip from the cup.

"You said no poppy!" He struggled weakly against her, looking at her almost accusingly upon tasting the bitter tincture.

"It's not." Her thin shoulders sagged slightly, and Arek noted the deep circles that shadowed her eyes. "I told you, it's just a small concoction to help you relax so you can rest. It's not a narcotic, I promise." Micah assured him, as she ran a soothing hand through his dark hair and settled him back on the bed. "Your wounds are likely to be troublesome before morning, though that's not so very far away." Her exhausted gaze looked into the inky blackness beyond the small window by the bed. "I will be right here, Arek of Malleore. If you have need of me, you need only ask."

"Micah," his voice rumbled like gravel, but was noticeably softened by the mild sleeping potion.

"Yes?"

"It's a good name," he murmured, drifting into a dreamless sleep.


	3. Recovery

Arek gradually became aware of the need to relieve himself and pain. At first, the pain was like the buzz of a bee in the distance, but as he clawed his way toward consciousness, it grew until the whole damn hive was near. His torso was on fire, the line of stitches down his back and the one on his belly making him wish he had stayed in that hazy dream state. He took a deep breath, groaning when even that hurt. The witcher opened his eyes and tried, unsuccessfully, to sit up. 'Damn those Redanian bastards to seven hells!' he thought as his abused body slumped back into the straw tick mattress. Arek groaned and bit back a curse.

It was daylight, probably mid morning and there was no one in sight. The woman who had attended him was gone, but it couldn't have been for long, her scent was still wafting on the air. Arek gritted his teeth and pushed himself upright, the movement making him dizzy and nauseous. Breathing through the sensation, he stood to his feet just as the door to the chamber opened and Micah stepped in.

"What are you doing?!" she exclaimed as she rushed to his side, steadying him as he wobbled. "You're in no shape to be up, yet!" His mutinous expression was eloquent and she pursed her lips. "If you persist, you will set back your healing, possibly permanently." Micah's arm was around his waist, bracing him against her slight form, helping him back to the bed. Her touch sparked heat along his nerve endings and she seemed entirely unaware of her effect on him.

Gripping the mattress in a fist, he looked away from her concerned face. Arek felt unaccountably flustered as he said. "I need to relieve myself."

"Ahh, of course." Her face relaxed, "I'll bring the necessary and assist you. Sit, please."

Her tiny figure disappeared for a few minutes and he could hear her rummaging in another part of the house. He looked down at himself noting the neat stitches in his belly and near his groin. It dawned on the big man that he was as naked as a babe and Micah had seemed completely unphased. 'She must be a healer or a druid.' As a witcher, Arek had done his share of convalescing at Mother Nenneke's temple of Melitele in Elander. The priestesses there never made him blush, so why did he feel suddenly awkward that this slip of a woman saw him thus?

The big witcher struggled to remember his brief flirt with consciousness from the night before and of their earlier conversation. Her face floated indistinctly in his memory, but he couldn't recall much beyond quietly murmured words and her gentle touch. He was decidedly shaky and would never admit that just standing up sapped his strength. Arek took another deep breath and was reminded once more of his injuries. 'Broken ribs' he grumbled to himself. He sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed, hating his helplessness.

Soon, she bustled back in, pushing a commode. "I would rather you use a bedpan and urinal for the next few days, but somehow I don't think you would abide that, would you Arek?"

A lopsided grin ghosted across his lips and he chuckled, before quickly wincing as his ribs complained. She had a sense of humor, this one, but it might just kill him if he didn't heal faster. He groaned as he regained his feet.

"I can take care of my business without you watching, too." He grunted, giving her a sardonic look that belied the amused glint in his eye. She lifted one delicate, eyebrow and nodded, leaving him in privacy to attend his needs.

When she returned to clear away his mess, he was sitting up in the bed with the sheet over his lower body. She brought in a tray of food and his stomach grumbled in response to the aroma of chicken soup and fresh bread.

"Now," she said. "It's been some time since I brought you here, and even longer since you've had anything to eat, I'm sure."

Arek's gaze sharpened on her as a wave of surprise washed through him. "How long have I been here? I remember we talked last night ..."

"Five days ago." She corrected with a serious expression. "You very nearly died. Even a witcher can become fevered if weakened and you lost a lot of blood. Your wounds are healing magnificently now, but you could set your progress back if you try to do too much so soon. Your body needs time to recuperate."

She fiddled with a bed tray, pulling the folding legs out and setting it over his lap, then placing the soup and bread in front of him. She handed him a spoon and said "It would be best to soak the bread in the broth before you ate it, and please try to eat slowly. Your body is coming off a fast and your stomach has to readjust to food."

He scowled at her bossy tone, but followed her advice, taking the opportunity to observe her. She wasn't beautiful in the classical sense, and it appeared she had broken her nose at one time. Her long, silken hair was held in a thick braid that fell between her shoulders to bounce just below her shoulder blades. Idly, he wondered what it would look like unbound and spread out on a pillow. Her voice was melodic, husky, and somehow soothing, stirring a desire within him to hear it often. She was altogether the exact kind of woman Arek diligently avoided; a woman who expected commitment and permanence. He had realized long ago that he could never promise a woman tomorrow, let alone a lifetime, and he certainly couldn't give them a child. He was just as sterile as any other witcher.

"How badly was I hurt?" he asked gruffly, spooning the delicious, savory broth into his mouth.

"There's a deep laceration from your right shoulder to your left hip, another one across your abdomen that came a hair short of disemboweling you, and one more, I might add, barely a finger's length above your penis. You can thank me for preserving your manhood." Her grin was impish, then she sobered. "You also have broken ribs and a bruised kidney. At least you aren't urinating blood now. We removed the corset we used to stabilize you yesterday, but you still need to move carefully." She looked him in the eye, "It was touch and go. I wasn't sure you would survive." Her face turned toward the window in sorrow. "You very nearly didn't. So many didn't." She added in a whisper as her eyes closed in pain.

Arek took her hand in his. "Thank you." He cleared his throat, "Thank you for saving my life." Micah raised her sooty lashes and blinked away the tears trembling on them. She looked into his eyes and smiled at him. It transformed her face and stole his breath. 'She is stunning when she smiles!' He realized. For a moment he just stared at her, then looked down. Hiding his reaction to her with a cough, he asked, "Where is here? I need to find my satchel and be on my way. I am grateful for your help, don't get me wrong, but I don't want to take up more of your time."

"We're about fifteen miles west of Vizima proper, just outside of the township of Gray Bog … or what used to be." The smile wavered, and her hand slipped away from his gentle grasp. "It's just the remains of a battlefield now. I'm sorry, Arek, you won't be fit to go anywhere but the privy for at least another fortnight. While I am sure you're eager to be on your way and you have contracts to fulfill, you can't do either if you're dead. As for your satchel," she rose and went to the end of the bed, "I believe I found it when I went back to search the area a few days ago. You raved about it during your fever, so I figured you would make a fuss once you had recovered." Micah offered him the leather satchel she had retrieved from the end of the bed.

He took the bag from her and carefully searched the contents. Swallow potion would still help him heal, and he was grateful to find an intact vial. He brought the foul tasting liquid to his lips and downed it quickly, then searched for the papers concealed within a secret pocket. It might already be too late to deliver them. Five days was an eternity when it came to war and Radovid was well known for his hatred of sorcery, sparing no pity in his zeal to rid the land of magic users. Giannis aep Nurvien had contracted the witcher to deliver the papers to certain powerful people in Kovir who could offer political asylum to the refugee magic users, apothecaries, alchemists and healers escaping the pogroms in Novigrad. He hated to leave a contract unfinished.

"The girls," he began.

"We buried them in a mass grave the day after I brought you here. Were you very close?" She asked, slipping her hand back into his.

"We were associates on a contract. I hadn't known them long enough to be close, but it was my job to protect them and I failed." He looked out the window and sighed. His job had been to escort the twin sorceresses to Lan Exeter, but they had gotten side tracked in Velen and caught in the middle of a battle. Now the girls were dead and he was stuck here in bed until Micah told him otherwise.

Arek finished his soup and worried his witcher medallion between his thumb and forefinger. Irony gripped him. He was still the last of the manticore school, which very nearly became extinct if not for this exceptional woman. The potion had begun its work. Arek felt the throbbing pain of his ribs recede and his multiple lacerations knit. They would leave terrible scars, but that was nothing new. "I don't have a fortnight, Micah. Do you have a horse?"

She looked him in the eye, taking in his pale features. Scowl lines were permanently etched between his eyes and his mouth, too, showed the tendency toward a grim expression. She had no idea how old he was, but she knew from her readings that witchers didn't age like normal humans. He could be more than a century old, while only appearing to be entering his middle years.

She replied, "The Temerian vanguard battalion commandeered most of our livestock, leaving us with just one mule. The only reason we have any food or other provisions remaining is that I promised to act as a field hospital to the battalion commander." She sat in thought for a moment, "I have noticed there are some horses running wild east of here, but they won't let anyone near. I'm not sure if they were part of the troops that moved through or if they are really wild."

He nodded, then said, "I need to brew some healing potions. Swallow will help me regenerate quickly and I must leave within the next day or two. Did you happen to find my swords? If not, I will need to acquire more."

She was alarmed that he would leave so soon, but nodded. Witchers were renowned for their regenerative abilities, even more so for their stubborn bullheadedness. "What do you need?" She sighed, "I may have it laid up in my still room. As for weaponry, I wasn't the only scavenger picking over that battlefield. Your swords are long gone, I am afraid. But we do have some weapons here, from others we have been treating."

"Hmm I wonder if there are any silver swords. Do you by chance have a smith here?"

"No. The smith left for the Temerian Army six weeks ago and took his anvil and forge with him."

"Damn." He huffed out a breath, raked a hand over his head and scratched his chin, grimacing at the stubble. He needed barbering. His face could hardly be called handsome anymore, though in the tenderness of his early manhood it had served him well enough to dally with the wenches.

Arek gave Micah the list of what he needed to brew his potions. The swallow he had downed was already doing its job, but he would need at least three more doses between now and tomorrow night if he wanted to leave anytime soon.

Micah gathered the supplies he needed and some clothing for him to wear. Fortunately, she still had enough of the herbs he had listed to make several doses of his swallow potion. She returned to his room and set everything up on a rolling tea cart while Arek pulled the britches on. Thankfully, they fit him well. Micah tried not to let her gaze linger on his body for long. Looking at him while he was sick and injured in a bed was one thing, but seeing him full of vitality made her heart race and her lower belly flip in ways she refused to acknowledge.

"How do you want these herbs processed? Snipped, shredded or crushed?" She asked, busying herself as a distraction.

"Crushed, please." He inspected the little stove she had brought with curiosity. He had never seen its like before and its use escaped him. "What is this thing? It looks strange."

"It's called an alcohol stove. We put denatured spirits in it and burn them. They turn gaseous when heated and flame jets out of the little holes around its top. There isn't any more denatured alcohol, but I did find some vodka, which should work without gumming things up too badly." Her simple smile grew as she began describing the contraption and it made his heart stutter. "Thank God for the humble potato."

Arek grunted his reply and watched as she filled the little apparatus with about a jigger of the vodka then used a tapir from the lantern to light the thing. He jerked back slightly when jets of flame did, indeed, shoot out of the many holes around its perimeter.

"We have about seven minutes of flame there, so let's get going." Micah said as she used a mortar and pestle to crush the herbs after verifying he needed them all crushed together.

Meanwhile, Arek busied himself slicing a dry, spongy material he had pulled from his satchel into thin strips with a hunting knife. She handed him the mortar bowl then retrieved the small jug of strong alcohol he had set on the floor at his side. Arek told her it was white gull and useful for many potions he used regularly. He poured a measured amount into the alembic flask, then added the herbs and spongy material. In what seemed no time at all to him, the alcohol in the alembic began to bubble and boil the contents into a greasy stew. The resulting steam condensed through a glass armature to a second flask sitting low in a cold water bath as an oily, golden liquid.

Micah asked "What is that material you put in the concoction?"

"Drowner brain." he said, swirling the alembic every so often.

"Well, at least they're good for something other than making a bloody nuisance of themselves pulling washer women into the river."

He barked a laugh at that and noted her answering grin. He liked making her smile, he decided. In the end, they brewed seven concentrated doses of swallow. The witcher was pleased.

"What makes this so toxic to non-witchers?" Micah asked as she inspected the liquid in the flask he just filled against the lantern's glow.

"The oils in drowner tissue are highly toxic, especially so in its brain. Even a small amount of unprotected contact can cause a severe reaction," he explained, corking the flask. "But a witcher metabolizes this property differently. For me, it accelerates my body's ability to heal wounds and stop internal bleeding. In you, it would cause cystic lumps and rapid blood clotting in the vessels near the skin where you were exposed."

"Huh." She pursed her lips, clearly lost in thought. "What I wouldn't give for a proper laboratory to figure out how it works," she murmured. "How often are you able to dose yourself?"

"About once every six to eight hours." He responded, topping off the last flask.

"The coagulant properties of the drowner tissue…. Does it always cause lesions when applied topically? I remember a brief discussion during my courses in Oxenfurt, but my alchemy professor seemed to think drowner tissues were inferior for anything useful."

His brows knit together, "I'm not deeply familiar with any other applications apart from witcher potions."

She nodded absently. "Is there anything else you need, Arek, any other potions you need to brew? I'll see what I can find as far as weapons for you if not."

"No, not for now. I just need to rest for a few hours. Then I will want you to take the stitches out."

"Speaking of," she said, moving over to him while he sat on the edge of the bed, "Let me look things over. You took a dose about an hour ago, right?" He nodded. She inspected the sutures on his back and exclaimed in surprise. "You weren't kidding! They aren't quite ready to come out, yet, but as you say, in a few hours they will be! Alright. You rest, I'll clean up and send one of the girls in with some food for you along with the necessary."

Micah bustled around tidying the space and wheeled the cart out the door. She smiled at him over her shoulder as the door closed softly behind her, and Arek couldn't help returning a grin when the door closed softly behind her.


	4. Hail Nilfgaard

**Edited and improved for your reading pleasure thanks to OmniGamer101 :) If you like it, please leave a review.**

* * *

 _The sun rose on the courtyard and they all did hear him say "you always was a Judas but I got you any way. You may have got your silver, but I swear upon my life, your sister gave me diamonds and I lay down with your wife."_

 _Dire Straits "The Man's Too Strong"_

* * *

Micah gave the Nilfgaardian captain her undivided attention as his horse came to a clipped halt before her. His platoon fanned out behind and to either side of him, presenting a united, and admittedly intimidating front. Their black mail glinted in the gloaming of a new day despite the mist that laid low on the land. The man dismounted his piebald charger as he surveyed the compound. It was little more than an elaborate set of hovels, really, with a slightly less hovel like main house set apart within the walled confines. He passed the reins to the man who stepped forward while the Nilfgaardian captain proceeded into the yard. Micah thought he looked like he had smelled something vile as he ambled toward her unhurriedly.

"Amazing how this place still stands, isn't it. So close to the recent fighting, while so many others were swept away," he spoke in clipped tones as he looked around, bringing his gaze to her face upon utterance of his last word. "I am commandeering this estate in the name of Nilfgaard and Emperor Emhyr Var Emreis. Of course, you will accomodate me and my men. We need a place from which to oversee order in the region. I am sure you have no objections, madam?" His eyebrow rose superciliously at her and he sneered with supreme self confidence.

"I don't see that I have a choice." She raised her chin a notch, meeting his gaze despite his height. "You are… ?"

"Captain Lars deBoor, at your service. Hmm. I will take the main house as my command and the barn shall be our barracks." He raised his right hand and circled two fingers in the air barking an order at one of his sergeants. His smile was reptilian as he regarded her, "I am sure you will not mind, though I understand if you would not want to vacate your rooms. I can be accommodating, so long as I am …. accommodated. Do you understand me?"

Micah suppressed a shudder, as he stepped close to her and took her chin in a painful grip. The odor of garlic and tobacco smoke on his breath was mildly nauseating, but she stood her ground, glaring daggers into his eyes.

"Well, well, you have spirit." The pressure of his fingers eased slightly but her jaw throbbed where he touched her.

"Let me go, if you please." She said low and steady through clenched teeth. She jerked her head away from his cruel fingers and took a cleansing breath. "We are little more than some widows, children and old men, and a very few that could be rescued from that butchery you claim to be victor over."

"Which soldiers?" he asked, the hint of a threat hiding behind his silky tone.

"I didn't take credentials when we brought them here. My concern is only to see that they are made better." She couldn't help that her hands clenched into fists, itching to snatch that smile off his face and ram it down his throat.

Again his right hand came up and the two fingers twitched. A young soldier ran to him, saluted and stood as the captain said "Find out." Another salute saw the young man trot away to do the bidding of his superior officer.

She lowered her eyes and took a deep breath. "If the men convalescing here are not Nilfgaardian, please consider using them for an exchange of prisoners rather than ending their lives or torturing them. The battle is over."

"Hmm you do beg most prettily, my dear," his hand came back to her chin, though more gently this time. "I wonder what else you would be willing to do to secure their fate, hmm?" His eyes shifted from his vulgar regard of her bosom to a point on her left.

"She shouldn't have to even beg." Growled Arek as he came to stand at her side, pulling her behind him. He could hear the rapid tempo of her heart as she peeked around him, her hand lying lightly on his arm.

The captain smiled maliciously and said "Ahh vatt'ghern. I simply offered her a business proposition, yes? Surely no harm done to your... wench." His eyes slid over her in an oily glance then returned to the man who held her, "What brings you here?"

"Convalescing." Murmured Arek.

"Indeed. I know witchers like to remain neutral in these skirmishes, so I need not ask your loyalties. You are welcome to stay and perhaps I would have a contract for you, hmm?"

Arek's eyes narrowed "If you have mail and weapons to spare me, perhaps." He ignored Micah's gasp.

De'Boor snickered as he regarded the pair standing before him. "Yes, well, I must see to the disposition of my men first. We will discuss business once I am finished, vatt'ghern." The captain's oily gaze shifted back to Micah, "You have until then to clear out any personal items from the house, I am not so heartless as to throw you out with only the clothes on your back, my dear." Micah crossed her arms over her breasts, attempting to shield herself from the captain's perusal which caused the man to chuckle wickedly at her. Arek shifted to hide her from de'Boor's sight.

The captain turned his attention back to Arek, "Witcher, what is it they call you? And what school do you hail from. I do not recognize the medallion."

"Arek of Malleore, of the school of the Manticore." the witcher's arms were crossed over his chest in an uncompromising pose.

"We shall speak later, Arek of Malleore, and we shall come to an agreement." The captain glanced meaningfully around the compound. "Yes, indeed, we shall come to an agreement."

Micah herded the children out of the top floor of the house, glancing around worriedly. There really was not much here, the squire and his wife had been little more than hedge nobility. Yet they had given her shelter and a home since she had come to them so many years ago. She left the children with the women gathered outside the barn, then checked on the wounded men who were convalescing under her care. Of the injured and dying, only four besides the witcher had not succumbed to their wounds. She hoped they were Nilfgaardian. Redanians and Temerians probably would be ill treated or executed outright.

She turned to go back in the house to pack a satchel. She couldn't stay here, not and keep herself from being turned into deBoor's doxy, but she had no idea where she could go. Novigrad was a possibility, but it was miles away and teaming with zealots from the Church of the Eternal Fire. She doubted she could keep her opinions enough to herself to escape notice. Once they noticed her, they would dig into her past, and that would be catastrophic. They would undoubtedly burn her as a witch and a heretic upon discovering her secret.

Oxenfurt was under Redanian control and gossip had it that the witch hunters had closed the Academy there, so even if she might have arrived unscathed, she had nowhere to shelter.

Vizima was the closest city, but it had been taken by Nilfgaard after last week's battle and was overrun with Black Ones. That did not sit well with her after her encounter with Captain deBoor.

The wilds were an even greater danger to a lone woman traveling by foot and unarmed. Even trying to reach White Orchard would be harrowing. She had precious little coin, having spent most of it for food and supplies on the eve of the battle to see her little community through the skirmish. Could she just leave everyone here and go off on her own just to save her dignity? She sat on the bed and let her head slump into her hands, allowing herself a moment of panic.

Arek found her like that as he entered the little room a moment later. Her eyes came up to meet his. "Well then," she said with a brightness she didn't feel, "At least the Nilfgaardians aren't slicing people up left and right today. I'm grateful for that." She looked around the chamber with a bleak smile and then looked up at him "We need to remove those stitches. I suppose you'll take his contract after all, as incompletely healed as you are?"

"I don't see much choice in the matter. At least I would get a chance to get my armor repaired and some weapons to replace what I lost." He smoothed a hand through his stubble, and gave a polite cough before looking away. "What will you do?"

"Do?" She laughed and heard a note of despair in it. Her eyes flitted around the room and closed in anguish "I don't know. I can't stay and I can't go … Hambeck and the other men and boys, they are safe enough, I think, here, but the women, the girls …" she shuddered, folding in on herself in misery, "I don't fancy selling myself, but if it ensures the safety of my people…" She knew she was on the verge of babbling and took a deep breath.

Arek cocked his head as if listening to something she couldn't hear. "Do you trust me?" He asked, looking at her intently.

"What? Why?" Her brow wrinkled in confusion.

"Do you trust me?" He repeated in a murmur.

She looked in his eyes and wasn't sure of her answer, but answered him regardless. "Yes."

"Then kiss me." His voice was a rumbling purr as he pulled her to her feet

"Wha…" Her eyes widened in shock as he laid claim to her open mouth. Pure molten sensation coursed through her body at every point of contact, from knee to lips. Her fisted hands pushed ineffectively at his chest as he pulled her to her tiptoes in the intimate embrace.

"Ahem," coughed the captain, interrupting them as he appeared unannounced. "I will await you in the dining room when you have … finished, hmm?" He left the pair alone, giving the witcher a venomous look. The witcher glared at the Nilfgaardian as he left.

Arek's right hand released her back and came up to gently cup her cheek. Micah's eyes were glossed with trembling passion as he traced her bottom lip with his thumb.

"I'm sorry. I heard him coming and wanted to make sure he got the message to leave you alone." The witcher's eyes sought her own in a beseeching gaze.

Her eyes slowly cleared from the haze of arousal and she pushed out of his arms. Her face flamed and she worried her lower lip between her teeth.

"So the only thing you could think to do was kiss me?" She seethed quietly as he made sure that the door was closed behind them.

"It worked." He said simply, ignoring how the kiss had affected him. He would like to do it again, in fact, soon, but he was sure she wouldn't let him.

She huffed out a breath and turned her back to him, crossing her arms over her stomach. Arek stepped close to Micah without touching her, so close his breath stirred the wisps of hair that had escaped her braid. The heat of his body surrounded her and she ruthlessly clamped down on an irrational urge to turn to him for comfort.

"Come with me when I am done with whatever business the captain wants to propose." His quiet rumble sent tiny bolts of sensation through her. "Take these stitches out and we'll hear what he has to say together."

Micah let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding and nodded her head. She hated to depend on him, or anyone for that matter, but her options were slim. She would simply have to make sure they didn't repeat that kiss. It was dangerous to her self control. She desperately hoped Arek didn't notice she wasn't completely composed as she bustled out of the room.


	5. The Contract

"Ensign Kuttler, hold the light steady, if you please," she said as she worked on cutting and pulling out the stitches in Arek's back.

The captain lounged against the end of the table and watched with a bored eye as the girl ministered to the witcher. _'Oh, she is exceptionally fine of spirit, that one,'_ he thought. He would have enjoyed bedding her at the end of a day holed up in this uncivilized backwater. A pity she had thrown in her lot with the witcher. _'Ah well, perhaps he'll abandon her when he leaves, as he is sure to do. I can always pick up the pieces then. If not, there are other women about.'_

Micah worked fast. No doubt she would have been useful for more than just bedsport. Despite himself, the captain was impressed with the scale of the wound on the witcher's back. "Quite the scar to add to your collection vatt'ghern." He said, his eyes hooded as he watched.

"Just one more, nothing special." Arek said, regarding the captain, his own expression shuttered. "What is this contract?"

"The bodies of the dead draw necrophages, as you know … if it were just the average corpse eater, I wouldn't bother putting out a contract. But something worse prowls and hunts among the corpses nearby. I have sent two detachments to take care of the thing, but my men have not returned in three days."

"Hmm. You sure it's not just that there are a lot of them about? Plentiful food laying on the surface would draw just about everything from far and wide."

"No. It's more than that," the captain ducked his chin in thought. "My men were strong enough to take care of even alghouls or a hag. This is something more."

"I need more details before I will hunt your 'something more'. Anyone who's actually seen the beast?"

Captain deBoor raised his hand and beckoned one of the guardsmen at the door. The man, little more than a boy really, stepped forward. "Tell the witcher what you saw private."

The young man blinked nervously twice and took a bracing gulp of air. "It was very large. Maybe as big as a draft horse, sir. And it stank something awful."

"All necrophages stink," Arek stated flatly.

"Begging pardon, master witcher, sir. But the stink off this thing blistered the air." The boy swallowed convulsively at the memory. "I could barely see, nor breathe from gagging so hard. It's only fortune that let me escape by falling into the Pontar."

"Hm. Did it have legs or other appendages?" The witcher leaned forward, intent on the soldier's description.

"It seemed to crouch on long back legs, supporting its forward weight on its knuckles."

Arek nodded. "What did its face look like?"

"Like a drowner's only the mouth was elongated and full of very sharp teeth and there wasn't a nose or much in the way of eyes or ears, for that matter - just lumpy suggestions of them."

"A ghast then." He palmed his chin in thought. "What's it worth to you, captain?"

De'Boor laughed softly, "Ever the businessman, eh. I want this thing gone. We can handle the average drowner or ghoul. But this thing … find out what happened to my men, eliminate it, bring me proof, and I shall pay you with a horse and supplies to see you out of Velen, yes?"

"To kill your ghast, deBoor, my price is two horses, armor, two swords, one of silver and meteorite metal, rations for two people for a week of travel and a thousand florens. In addition, you personally ensure the safety of all the people who have taken refuge in this compound."

"One horse, three days of rations, armor and weapons, including one of meteorite and silver and four hundred florens. I will ensure the safety of the women and children," countered de'Boor. "Do you take us for barbarians?"

"Add a letter of safe passage and make it 600 florens and I'll kill your ghast." The witcher slanted a shrewd look at the captain. "Micah needs to finish removing the stitches and then help me brew potions and blade oils. We need a quiet place to do that where we won't be disturbed."

The captain smiled broadly and clapped his hands together with relish. The hand went up, the fingers twirled and he shouted his orders as he strode out the door.

* * *

It took Micah two hours to remove all the stitches and paint his healed lacerations with iodine tincture. The potions and blade oils took a little longer as they had to go scavenging for some ingredients outside the walls of the compound. In the end, he ended up with two doses of cat, three adrenaline enhancers and a good quantity of necrophage oil. He would have liked to have made some proper bombs, but in the end sufficed himself with Mahakaman cocktails of silver sulfide and lamp oil. Micah reminded him to take another dose of swallow just to ensure he was as fit as he could be and then it was time to get ready.

A rough man with a blacksmith's apron brought in a chain hauberk and gambeson and thick leather leggings. Boots and riveted gloves were added to the gear along with two well crafted swords of meteorite steel, one of which was also inlaid with silver along the edge and fuller. Arek donned the armor and arranged the two sheaths over his right shoulder such that they hung from his shoulder to his left hip.

He walked outside to sit on a bench overlooking the yard, drawing the silvered sword and greasing the blade with the necrophage oil. He noted the edge was razor sharp and about twenty-seven inches from tip to the bottom of the cross piece. It was a well made long sword, even if it were nothing out of the ordinary. He missed his witcher's weapons, though, and knew he would have to replace them as soon as he got the chance. Once his blade was well lubricated, he returned it to its scabbard, then proceeded to cork the remaining oil and stow it in his satchel. He would wait till he was closer to the battlefield before he would meditate and drink his potions. No need to waste their effectiveness on the time required to get to the site.

The captain ambled up with Micah at his side and greeted the witcher. They all watched as one of the ostlers brought a roan destrier kitted in barding and war saddle before them. Arek stood and faced Micah, his fingers itching to trace the delicate line of her jaw. He settled with just handing her his satchel, the potions he needed already tucked in a pouch at his waist.

"Arek, be careful, ok?" She held her hand on his wrist for a few heartbeats before taking the satchel.

"I always am." He gave her a lopsided grin. "But if I don't come back, would you take this to a friend of mine in Novigrad. There's a note inside for you and for them. She nodded as she accepted the satchel, passing him a small pot of mint smelling salve in return.

"Use it in your nostrils to block out some of the stench. We usually use it for treating stuffy heads and colds. We also use it when dressing the dead for burial. It helps." she said.

The captain rolled his eyes at the display, "Enough with the sentimentalities, vatt'ghern. You are ready, yes? The swords and armor are adequate? I can personally assure you that the horse is excellent."

"Everything is satisfactory, captain." Arek strode to the horse and mounted quickly, taking up the reins and looking toward the gate, he made note of the westering sun. He would reach the remains of Grey Bog after sunset.

"Don't worry witcher, if you don't return I'll take good care of your woman." deBoor's hand snaked around Micah's waist, pulling her roughly to his side. His oily laughter followed Arek out of the yard as the witcher made his way toward the battlefield.

* * *

Micah wrenched herself away from the captain's hold as she watched Arek's retreating figure.

"Come, Miss Van Waller. Join me for dinner," said the infuriating man. She ignored him, turning to walk away.

DeBoor stopped her with a hand on her arm. "It does you no good to spurn my offer. If the witcher returns, then all you have sacrificed is an hour or two in my presence. If he doesn't, well, consider it an investment in the stability of your future."

"I wonder how your wife would feel about you propositioning another woman, captain." Micah seethed, glaring at him over her shoulder.

"My wife," murmured the Nilfgaardian, closing the distance between them, "resides comfortably in Maecht, raising my sons. I assure you she is unconcerned with whom I choose to dally. I do not meddle in her affairs, nor she in mine."

"How … cosmopolitan of you." Micah spat.

Lars deBoor chuckled. "I wish to discuss the wounded men who survived last week's skirmish. Surely you can spare the time and endure my company for their sake, hmm?" His voice was a silken whisper in her ear. He enjoyed her defiance, reveled in the fine tremor of fear that fluttered through her limbs. He found himself almost hoping the vatt'ghern would fail in his mission so he could keep this woman for himself. "Come." He stepped back and extended his hand to her, sneering when she relented, then led her back to the house.


	6. Cleaning Up

**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!  
Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

 **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**

* * *

 _"They did bring back a few corpses with 'em, they're up in the medical tent still._

 _Geniss ain't got round to burying the poor bastards yet."_

 _"And you wonder why you've got a monster problem."_

 _Captain Rehaoro to the Witcher Thrayn_

 _"Shadows of the Moon" by TheKingRaven_

* * *

Six days since the fighting ended. Six days of bodies stewing in sun and rain to create a perfect mash for necrophages. He expected to find ghouls, alghouls and even grave hags attracted by the rotting mass. He didn't hold to the superstitious tales about how such creatures simply sprang up near places of corruption and death. Ghasts were something more menacing altogether. _'What causes them?'_ He wondered as he found a flat spot a bit away from the field and settled into a kneeling position. Closing his eyes, he took in deep controlled breaths through his mouth and exhaled through his nose. He centered himself and focused only on the fight to come, freeing his thoughts of everything save for vanquishing the enemy.

Arek opened his eyes and used the little pot of salve as Micah had instructed, dabbing small amounts below each nostril. Then, quickly downing his adrenalin accelerators and strength enhancers, he braced himself for their impact as the vile brews hit his system. His veins were etched black against his pallor and he felt power surge and course along through his body. As horrible as witcher potions were, he reveled in their effects. He was ready.

He rose from his kneeling position and prowled toward the ruins of Gray Bog, hearing the skittering of corpse eaters around him. They seemed reluctant to approach. He focused his attention on the ground and started looking for the remnants of the captains' detachments, believing when he found them he would find the beast he sought.

Tracking was made difficult by the abundance of rain and the passage of scavengers through the area. He kept his step light as he scoured the ground for clues, his silver sword held ready in his right hand. Whiffs of corruption made their way through the ointment at his nose and the night echoed all around him with the sounds of creatures coming to feast.

 _'THERE!'_ The footprints were recent. _'Twelve men in armor heading north-east along the edge of this stagnant pool.'_ Arek followed the trail for ten minutes when he came upon them. They were torn apart like rag dolls. Crouching before the most complete corpse of their company, the witcher noted the deep gashes in the plate armor over the man's chest. The beast that had ripped into the soldier was very strong and had very sharp claws. Half his head was bitten away and Arek noticed the evidence of many razor sharp teeth in the wound. He sniffed at it and recoiled as the acrid stench of rot assailed him even through the salve's pungent aroma.

 _'Definitely a ghast.'_ He mused. _'Igni would be effective, and yrden to slow the thing.'_ Standing, Arek cast a quen shield on himself, his body shimmering with the golden light of the projected force shield.

He scanned the ground again and found what he was looking for - the beast's trail. Staying alert, he followed it toward the river, keeping a wary eye out for lesser corpse eaters. Arek didn't feel entirely fit yet, reluctant to waste his strength on more than his primary contract. Stepping carefully, he avoided unwanted attention as the miasma grew stronger in the air. It carried a physical, cloying presence that made his eyes water.

Just ahead, a large mass moved against the river bank. Staying low, Arak stalked toward the thing and focused his mind away from the curling fetor of decay. He pulled out a flask of Mahakaman Cocktail and prepared igni to light the rag that stoppered its top. When he was within ten feet of the thing, he made the sign, ignited the rough fuse and threw a hard pitch at the lumbering form.

The flask fell at the feet of the monster, the oil flashing into flames as the monstrosity issued a hissing roar from its pasty, white throat. Arek surged forward and pirouetted under the first thrust of its massive claws, the silvered sword scoring the ghast along its flank as he danced behind it. Faster than anything natural had the right to move, the hulking beast twisted its head beneath its arm and tried to bite the witcher as he spun away. Spin! Parry! Thrust! Spin again! Arek lunged forward with a strong swipe to the creature's shoulder and struck true. He felt bone give way as his blade cleaved the appendage in one clean blow, leaving the ghast to reel in pain.

It howled in rage turning its injured flank away from this puny thing attacking it. Poison from the oiled blade hissed and sputtered in its wound, driving the ghast to desperation. Hissing it lunged at Arek and sank razor sharp teeth into his left thigh, raking at his body with its remaining claws.

"Come on, you stinking filth, let's finish it!" Screamed the witcher, ignoring the pain and instead stoking his own rage. Roaring with the adrenalin surge that arced through him, Arek lifted his blade and plunged the sword into the back of the thing's neck and out through its throat. It convulsed once, twice, before finally shivering into stillness.

Arek pulled his leg out of its mouth and fell back against the bank, retching as he came down from his battle frenzy. His hand went to his wounded leg, trying to stem the flow of blood seeping through his fingers. He downed swallow and used a strap to fashion a crude tourniquet as he sat shivering, waiting for the potion to work. It took longer than usual, but five minutes was still a flicker of an instant compared to how long it would take a normal man to recover from such a wound.

"Alright you foul bastard, let's see what you have for me." he grumbled in his low pitched timber. He finished severing the head and used the edge of his dagger to scrape some spinal tissue, blood and fragmented bone into a clean vial. He would have to take it to an alchemist he knew in Novigrad to determine if there was anything useful or mutagenic in the tissues.

Arek wiped his blade clean and discarded the rag he used. He figured there was no way to get the stink out of it anyway. He held out a little hope that at least his armor and clothing could be salvaged. Slowly, he limped toward where his horse stood munching new shoots of grass. The animal was alert and wary of the necrophages the witcher could hear crunching bones and slurping marrow nearby. Arek calmed his mount with axii as he strapped his ghastly trophy to the horse's saddle. The man stood with his face pressed into the leather, riding out a wave of nausea, before stepping into the saddle and heading back to the compound.

His leg still throbbed when he rode into the courtyard, with the stench of the ghast preceding him. He wasn't surprised the place was deserted, and if not for the fact he could hear retching on the other side of the compound, he would have thought everyone had packed up and left.

DeBoor strode out the door of the main house with a rag held to his face, covering his nose and mouth. The glimmering rays of dawn revealed the man in his shirt sleeves, breeches and boots. He had not taken the time to don armor. Arek scanned behind the captain hoping that Micah would follow soon, disappointed and worried that she didn't make an appearance.

"Vatt'ghern! You have done it then!" The captain gagged. "Gods' teeth but that thing stinks! Take it out to the fallow field behind us and burn it."

"Didn't contract to dispose of it, just to kill it for you," growled the witcher as he dismounted and grabbed the hook the beast's head dangled from off the saddle. He gave his arm a flick and the head sailed to land at deBoor's feet with a sickening, dull thud.

" ...gaaaa…. Guar...aaa ...dd! Y ..ga… you! Disp...aaag… dispose of this filth ….aaaaccck." the captain's hand danced in the air as he motioned to one of the guards who had crept into the courtyard, looking shaky and pale. The soldier's throat started working and his eyes bulged out of their sockets, streaming tears as if he had just shoved his head in a bucket of sliced onions. He went in search of a shovel and a hand cart and tried not to vomit his guts upon the ground.

The captain regarded the witcher, still holding the rag over his nose. "There's a rather good bathing grotto, perhaps you should make use of it before coming to me in my office, yes? I will ensure you have soap and a change of clothing." He turned and walked back into the house rapidly, dismissing the witcher where he stood glowering at his back.

* * *

Arek had to admit that scrubbing the stink off in the waterfall and soaking away the aches in the hot springs was a capital idea. He relaxed entirely and enjoyed the warmth seeping through his aching muscles. Detoxing from his potions was slightly less unpleasant, too, and he lay limp in the steaming water in a fuzzy state between sleep and wakefulness. The light tread of feet upon stone snapped him from his doze and he was instantly alert. Arek stilled his breathing and tensed for combat, only relaxing when he identified Micah's footsteps. The woman swung into his field of vision carrying a stack of towels and clothing. He grinned at her as she blushed and looked at her feet.

"Thank you for not dying out there, Arek." She chewed her bottom lip. "I worried about you going out and not being completely healed. What a fool thing to do!" Micah's braid bobbed on her shoulder and she shook her head vehemently.

"A witcher does what he has to. I needed supplies and a horse to get to Novigrad and the captain's contract provided the means." He lay back against the side of the pool, his eyes half closed as he looked at her. "Micah." His voice was low, sending shocks of sensation through her as she turned back toward him. "Have you decided where you will go, yet? My offer still stands, come with me to Novigrad."

Brushing imaginary dirt off the bench, Micah huffed. "I truly do not relish the idea of whiling away my days warming that man's bed." Nodding slowly, her arms crept about her. "Yes. I think that would be for the best. Even if deBoor wasn't a beast, the empire has laid claim to my land and I no longer have any place here." Her shoulders slumped in defeat, and her expression grew bitter. "One day, you are assured of your place in the world, the next you find that your place is gone at the whim of people you have never met." Meticulously, she began arranging the clothing and towels, and gave Arek a look over under the cover of her lashes, searching for new scars. Her head came up when she spied the deep wound on his thigh.

"It really got you good there, didn't it? You should have let me examine that and clean it out before you came down here." Her brows drew together in a worried frown. "I think I still have some penicillium that I cultured last spring. That ghast could hardly have been sanitary and that is a deep wound."

He shrugged elegantly and said, "Witchers are pretty much immune to most infections. Otherwise, we couldn't do what we do."

She turned away with a frown and inspected his armor and weapons. The swords gleamed in the low light of the grotto and the armor seemed to have been thoroughly cleaned as well. The leather britches would need repaired, she noted, as they were ragged where the ghast had bit him.

"Old witcher housekeeping trick." He rumbled as he noticed her regard, "Mahakaman Spirits do well to clean metal and leather. A good warrior always tends his gear first, and I prefer to wear clean armor after I've bathed."

"That makes sense." she murmured. Micah nibbled her bottom lip once more, an action he found quite enjoyable to watch. "I'll see you up top when you're finished. I've got to go think of what still needs to be done before I can leave."

"For starters, you could stay and help me get dressed." He said gently and held his hands out to his sides as he lazed in the steaming water of the spring. "Wouldn't want deBoor to think you weren't showing me how grateful you are that I'm alive after all." He hauled himself to his feet, water sluicing down his torso. Her face went crimson as she swiftly averted her eyes, but her mind wouldn't let the image of his naked body fade.

She did laugh then and choked out an unladylike snort. "Men," was all she said as she turned her back to him in a huff. "Playing loverly in front of the captain is one thing, Arek, but I don't think it's smart for us to start believing our own act."

The witcher preferred her angry rather than desperate. Even if his words had stirred her ire, she wasn't sinking in despair as she thought of her future. He figured Micah would leave now, storm away indignant and embarrassed, but she didn't. She stayed there, with her back to him, enticingly vulnerable. He listened to her breathing coming just a little too fast, matching the racing of her pulse. She wasn't indifferent to him, the thought making him smile. The witcher snagged a towel and wrapped it around his lean hips then prowled up behind her, turning her to face him with a caressing hand on her shoulder. Micah's lower lip received more abuse as she inhaled his clean scent. He traced the plump fullness of her mouth with his thumb then cupped her soft cheek in his palm, his eyes sparking with desire.

"It doesn't have to be an act." Arek rumbled softly.

For just a moment, Micah leaned into his caress, then she turned her head away. "I'm not the kind of woman who can just enjoy a fling, Arek." She stepped away from him. "I don't do casual sex. I … don't open my spirit to a man just because he makes me weak in the knees when he kisses me." She whispered huskily.

Arek's grin was cocky as he asked, "I make you weak in the knees?" Then his brows drew together as a strange emotion assailed him. Somehow, he didn't like the idea of her touching anyone other than him and he growled, "How many men have you kissed, Micah?"

The woman's eyes flew to his, widening in outrage. "That's not any of your business!" She huffed, her mouth pinching in a prim line and color flying high on her cheeks.

He scowled. "You're right, I won't promise you tomorrow, let alone the rest of your life, and I am certainly not worthy of your heart." He brushed a strand of hair away from her face as she glared at him. "Go back to the house. I'll be there as soon as I've dressed."

He watched her leave, trying not to notice how her hips swayed as she walked away, resisting the impulse to drag her back into his arms, to kiss her until all her resistance melted away. Arek sensed she would need more subtle wooing than that. She wasn't a randy barmaid or a half-oren strumpet after all. Integrity and pride made her magnificent and the witcher couldn't remember a time in his long, long life he was so intrigued by a woman. Novigrad was several days away, even with a good horse to carry them so he had some time to be subtle. Whistling a bawdy tavern song, he dressed and sauntered out of the grotto to collect his reward from the waiting captain.


	7. On The Road

**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**

 **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

 **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**

* * *

Arek walked into the hall, heading towards the dining room which the captain had turned into his office. _'Damn, the man works fast.'_ Thought the witcher as his boot heels tapped a steady tempo along the tiles.

"I'm here for my payment, deBoor," he said as the captain rose from a chair in front of the fire.

"Mmm yes," said the Nilfgaardian with a sour look on his face. "Six Hundred florens and a writ of passage. You already have the armor, weapons and the horse. Miss Van Waller should have the rations packed and ready to go by now. I've ensured the peasantry will be employed and my men are under orders to leave the women and girls alone, as per our agreement." The captain poured Arek a cup of ale and refreshed his own drink. "Where do you go next, Vatt'ghern? I am sure you will find ample work taking care of the filth that spawns from battlefields."

"You want less of that filth spawning, deBoor?" Arek sidestepped the question. "Put your men to work burying the dead, or burning them. Remove the food supply and you shouldn't have a monster problem."

"Yes yes, the woman said something similar, only she declared that it was infection we would avoid." DeBoor tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Perhaps I will take your advice and hers into consideration, hmm."

Arek nodded while he waited for deBoor to pull out a pouch and count ten marks into his hand. When the transaction was completed and both the money and documents were secured in his satchel, the witcher strolled out to the courtyard, headed for Micah and his horse. He was eager to be on the road and wouldn't miss the captain or his men when they left.

"You ready?" Micah asked as Arek stepped into the enclosure. She was just packing some food in one of the saddle bags.

"Yeah. You?" He noticed the only personal gear she carried was a rucksack that didn't seem full.

She looked around the stall and took a deep breath. "Yes." She nodded decisively. "Yes. We're going to Novigrad, right?"

"Mmmhmm. I need to get passage to Kovir."

"Lan Exeter is there." She contemplated the tip of her boot for a moment. "I had a classmate that settled into a job at the academy. If you wouldn't mind, could you escort me there?"

He looked into her face and smiled warmly. "I owe you my life, Micah, it will be my pleasure to escort you to your friend."

"Ok." She smiled back, "It's a long trip for two with just one horse." She thought for a moment, then said, "I told you about the horses to the east, maybe we can catch one but we only have tack for the one horse."

"I can ride bareback for a while. Let's check it out, it's not far out of our way," he said as he led the roan out of the paddock and stepped into the saddle. Arek gripped Micah's raised hand and pulled her into the saddle in front of him. She settled herself between his thighs, and his lips twitched as if he were about to grin, but he managed to keep his face stoic. "My swords wouldn't be comfortable for you riding behind me." He murmured into her ear, then more to himself he whispered, "Trust me, it's better this way." He took up the reins, his arms around her, applying his heel to the horse's withers. They were soon on the road, headed east.

* * *

The horses proved to be wild, but Arek used axii to calm one enough to mount it. It was a beautiful palomino mare with a golden sheen and dark mane, tail and feathers. The witcher named her Saki, saying she reminded him of the hot alcohol he had partaken of in a land across the sea, off the shores of Ofir, when he was a much younger man. Micah told him about her years at Oxenfurt University studying the healing arts, laughing about all night study sessions at The Alchemy tavern.

The small woman proved to be an adept traveling companion, even helping to set up camp the first night. She sat at the fire, turning the spit that held two rabbits Arek had killed earlier in the day. The meat sizzled and popped over a bed of glowing coals, the tantalizing aroma wafting on the wind to the hungry witcher. The air still held a chilly nip and Micah snuggled into her cloak as she tended to their meal. He lounged next to her, propped up on one elbow, noticing how the cold brought a rosy hue to her cheeks. He was telling her a story about his first hunt, tracking a godling through the Fire Mountains to retrieve a stolen whistle. She chortled at the funny parts of the story and handed him his roast rabbit as she ate her own.

"How long have you been a witcher, Arek?" she asked as she finished her meal.

He sat up and poked at the smoldering coals, thinking. "Somewhere between two and three hundred years. Not really sure any more. After the decline of the Manticores, time just started to run together and I stopped keeping track." Micah took his hand and squeezed it in sympathy. A sudden gust of cold wind blew her cloak open and her body shivered in response. Arek drew her close to his side, sheltering her in his warmth.

"Looks like it's going to get colder before dawn." He said, looking into the clear night sky where myriad stars winked down at them. His glance slid over her quickly. "We should share a bedroll. It'll be warmer for both of us." The woman pulled away from him, looking doubtful. "I'm serious," he insisted, "and I promise to treat you as if you were my sister."

She worried her bottom lip with her teeth for a moment before she nodded skeptically. "Alright. Just to keep warm, right?" She raised her eyes to his.

"Witcher's honor." He rumbled, knowing he would be getting little sleep with her curled against him. They laid out a pallet and settled down for the night with her closest to the fire. Arek reassured her he never slept deeply on the road and would hear anything that tried to creep up on them as he set his swords within easy reach. He pulled her in close and felt her relax as she drifted off, and despite fearing he would be too aroused to rest, he soon dozed.

* * *

She woke first the next morning, enveloped in his warmth. Micah felt safe and relaxed as she lay facing Arek, his beard tickling her nose and his soft snores stirring the hair at her forehead. His beard was silky and surprisingly soft she discovered, running her fingers over the strong line of his jaw. She wasn't sure when he had awoken, but sometime during her exploration she realized he was no longer snoring. His eyelids were cracked the barest amount to allow gold to glitter down at her from his molten gaze.

"Good morning, love." Arek teased, his voice raspy with sleep as he propped himself up. He noted that her head was still cushioned on his forearm and it filled him with deep warmth, as he lifted his other hand to brush strands of hair away from her face gently. His touch lingered briefly on the soft swell of her cheek before returning it back to his side. He had woken the instant she had stroked his jaw, but had held himself still to see how much farther she would go. He wanted to kiss her and nuzzle into her sweetness, but the side of the road wasn't a good place to make love. He settled with a chaste kiss to her brow and sat up. She arose while he rekindled the fire and pulled out a water skin and a small pouch of herbs from the saddlebags.

"Morning tea to go with our hard tack." She crinkled her nose into a smile and got the water heating in a little pot over the fire. It didn't take long for the water to warm and they had their breakfast before packing up camp and resuming their journey.

The pair spent one more night camping in the open, seeing more and more people along the way as they traveled toward the village of Toderas. People who had been displaced from their homes and farms by the fighting, hoping for help in the village. Micah and Arek were just as dusty as the refugees, and keen for a hot meal and a soft bed when they rode into the main square. The stares of the villagers were so sullen and quiet, it made Micah shiver. Arek helped her dismount from her horse and stripped the tack from its back. He used axii on Saki and instructed the horse to stay in the yard close to the roan.

"People are really on edge here." She said, a worried frown creasing her brow.

"Can you blame them?" The witcher kept his voice low, his senses on alert for trouble. "It's been barely a week since Emhyr overtook Vizima. No one is really certain where they stand."

Arek placed a hand at the small of her back and guided her into the inn. The tavern was smoky, ill lit and smelled of piss and sour wine. Muted conversation suddenly stilled as the pair stepped into the dim room and sought a table in the corner of the room. A heartbeat after they were seated, the flow of sound resumed and a fat, hairy innkeep waddled toward them.

"Name's Josum and I run this establishment. Aughtl'e it be, folks?" the ample man drawled, looking distrustfully toward the witcher, his face puckered in a sour grimace. Witchers meant trouble to him, but their coin spent the same, and he wouldn't turn one away from vittles or a bed if they had the funds. At least this one brought his own woman and wouldn't be bothering the serving wenches.

"Two tankards of ale and what have you in the stew pot." Said Arek. "And two rooms if you have them to spare."

"I 'ave. Ten orens for the rooms and grub." The price was steep, but the movement of so many war torn refugees ensured services could only be had at a premium. A greasy key ring was pulled from under a greasier apron and the keys sorted while Arek fished for coins in his belt pouch. Josum removed two blackened keys, handing them to the witcher with an unfriendly look. "Up the stairs, the two rooms on the right 'and side o' the hall."

Arek handed the man a few coins and nodded his acceptance as the innkeep waddled away hollering at a serving girl sweeping the floor. In short order, the witcher and his companion were eating bowls of an unappetizing, thin stew of venison and root vegetables. The ale was cold and refreshing, at least.

"Josum seems rude for an innkeeper," murmured Micah as they ate.

"It's because I'm a witcher. If you weren't with me, he would likely have refused me a room." He kept his eyes on his stew and his voice low.

"People can be so stupid," huffed the little woman, indignant on his behalf. "They pick out any little difference they can find in someone so they can justify incivility and hatred." She shook her head, thinking of where she had come from, knowing people never really changed.

The pair finished their meal, watching patrons enter and carouse with their cronies as the noise level steadily increased. A pall of tobacco smoke hung low, generally obscuring what little light was put out by the few lanterns dispersed in the room.

Micah was nursing the last bit of ale in her cup and Arek thinking of ordering a second round when three witch hunters entered. They were members of the police arm of the Eternal Fire Church, strongmen who went about Hierarch Hemmelfart's business to rid the land of sorcery and non-humans alike. They wore the long, high collared leather uniform of their office, and were armed with short swords and maces. The group bullied away the patrons who had been snoring in their cups at the table next to Micah and Arek, and called loudly for service.

Arek lowered his head over his cup, listening to the men as they talked while Micah continued to nurse her ale.

"Oiye, what a bloody daft errand this is. Menge must 'ave 'is 'ead up 'is arse." grumbled the one directly behind the woman.

"Yeah, going after a bloody book." mumbled the second "'Oo cares about a fookin' book when there's a war on. 'Oo cares about witcher schools that ran dry years ago when there's bleedin' elves threatenin' the sanctity o' humanity? We gots better things to do than play librarian."

The third hissed. "Word is this comes from the Hierarch hisself, Doddins. So don't go pissin' about so loud like."

Doddins lowered his tone only slightly, "Oiye but why's he want any info at all about makin' baby witchers? Not like it'll make getting rid of the filth any easier on us, it won't."

Micah's eyes widened as she fought to remain silent. Arek's knuckles had gone white around the cup in his hand. What would the church want with witcher secrets? The answer to that question froze Micah's heart when she thought about it.

The men continued their conversation as she and the witcher listened in. "Nay, fighting filth won't be any easier, but that's not for the likes o' us to worry over." Philosophized the first witch hunter. "Leave that to Caleb Menge and Hierarch Hemmelfart to figure out. Sure 'an I am they have a plan. All I'm interested in now is a kegger of that ale, vitels and maybe a squeeze wi' the serving wench. INNKEEP!" Bellowed the witch hunter, summoning Josum in waddling haste to their table as fast as his pudgy legs could pedal.

Arek stood up quietly and signaled Micah to follow along with him as he kept his head down and walked toward the stairway and their rooms.


	8. Revelations

_**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**_

 _ **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**_

 _ **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**_

* * *

 _"So they dug your grave_

 _And the masquerade_

 _Will come calling out_

 _At the mess you made_

… _._

 _When you feel my heat_

 _Look into my eyes_

 _It's where my demons hide_

 _It's where my demons hide_

 _Don't get too close_

 _It's dark inside_

 _It's where my demons hide_

 _It's where my demons hide"_

 ** _Imagine Dragons, "Demons"_**

* * *

Arek followed Micah into her room after unlocking it. She looked at him, a question floating behind her eyes. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head.

"I don't have time to go after them, but I would dearly like to." He grunted with a sour look.

"What makes a witcher, Arek?" She asked quietly as she stared out the window.

He raised a brow, the question seemingly coming out of nowhere. "What do you mean? What makes a witcher?"

"Just what I asked. What makes a witcher?" He noticed her arms were crossed and the fingers of her right hand were tapping her left elbow.

Still trying to avoid the direction their conversation was quickly heading, he gave a wry smile. "There's years of training and study, and don't get me started about Trials. Those were downright terrible." He kept his tone jovial, but his eyes hardened at the memories. His raw emotions must have shown on his face considering Micah's brief expression of pity. It twisted something tight in his gut.

"Is it the changes that give you the cat eyes that make you a witcher?" She asked and looked him in the eye.

He felt a little nonplussed at her continued directness. "The mutations make me stronger and faster. I have more stamina and endurance than a normal man. I can see in the dark and I heal rapidly. Is that what you're driving at?"

She stood up and went to the window, looking out over the stable yard in front of the inn. "The thing that makes you a witcher, Arek, isn't the physical changes. Sure, they help you to BE a witcher, but the seminal point upon which it all hangs comes down to who you are." Micah turned and prodded his chest with a delicate finger. "You were raised to believe certain things, to think a certain way and guided toward a particular philosophy of life." Her hand fell to a fist at her side. "Imagine men who had your super powers but none of your integrity."

He could imagine that full well, as there had been plenty of witchers who trod a crooked path in his lifetime. "Super powers? That's an odd turn of phrase."

"Mmmhmm." She hummed noncommittally. Micah paused, then asked. "Are there any new witchers being trained in the old traditions?"

Arek's thought. "Not to my knowledge, Manticore's last selections were over eighty years ago. Bear's were centuries. I wouldn't know about Griffin, Wolf or Cat, though." Arek tsked lightly under his breath. "Considering the dwindling numbers of witchers I run into each year, no. No school is producing more."

She nodded as if agreeing with a private thought. "What happens when the last witcher dies?"

He chuckled softly, that was an easy question. "Then there will be none and the world will continue spinning on as it always has."

"Unless evil men with evil intent make mutants with all your augmentations but none of your honor. And then things get quantitatively worse." The look on her face was grave.

"Are you suggesting we waylay six well armed men for a letter and a book?" He looked at her indignantly, "I have a contract to fulfill still and I'm not fond of just murdering people on such slim grounds."

"Maybe we don't have to do that." She turned back to gaze out the window. "Maybe we can get them drunk enough to not realize they are getting rolled for their goods."

He looked askance at her and raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Have you turned thief on me then, Micah?"

"Their horses are billeted right next to ours. Look." He rose to stand next to her and looked into the stable yard. "We may get lucky and they put the documents in their saddlebags."

He considered what she said. He wanted his hands on what the witch hunters had talked about for the same reasons she had named. The Church of the Eternal Fire was malignant. He saw evidence everywhere of their misguided doctrine.

"Ok. It won't be long till it's full dark. Think I can get the innkeep to make sure their drinks are topped off all night. Maybe get them into a steep game of gwent or dice. You wait till everyone's attention is inside and go through their saddle bags. But be careful."

She grinned at him, a sparkle lighting her eye. "Sounds fun, let's do this!"

* * *

Arek ambled back into the main room of the tavern and whispered into the innkeeper's ear as he flashed some coins and nodded at the witch hunters. He waited till they were deep in the second round when he approached, shuffling a deck of cards as strolled up. "You gentlemen interested in a round of cards?"

As Arek kept the witch hunters distracted, Micah slipped out the back door of the inn, near the kitchen, and ambled around to the front. There were cries and cheers coming from inside the tavern and to any observers would have indicated quite a party. She looked around and quickly ducked into the stable, making her way to the six mounts used by the hunters. The saddles were all set on the saddle stand in the stall and luckily, the saddlebags had not been removed by their owners.

Micah quickly rifled through each saddlebag, searching for any kind of package that indicated a book or letter. She found a few and secreted them in Arek's satchel, which she had slung across her body. When she had satisfied herself that she had missed nothing, she slunk back up to her room and investigated her haul. Three letters from lovers, two improving tracts written by some priest of the Fire or other, and four devotional journals were amongst her haul, but nothing clandestine. She decided it was time to go down and join Arek, hoping he had gotten the witch hunters good and drunk by now. She decided to get rid of the evidence of her pilfering and took everything back into the stable, tucking them into random saddlebags before sauntering back into the tavern. Micah made her way toward the source of the revelry.

Arek was grinning at one of the hunters, several empty shot glasses in front of each of them, as they rolled dice.

"Dddamn witch.. wit.. witcher .. ye 'ave unc… unc.. unclredimal luck!" slurred the hunter named Doddins.

"Not'at'al," slurred the witcher right back, "is' jus' ran..random." The men surrounding the two roared with laughter.

Micah tried to stay small as she watched the witch hunters carefully. THERE, in the inner pocket of one who had passed out against the wall, she could see the corner of a book sticking out of the inner lining of his strange, tall collared leather coat that passed for witch hunter armor. Men were clamoring around the conscious players and she thought she could edge close enough to pull the book out without being observed.

She slipped around back of the large, rowdy farmer in front of her, and got next to the wall. She was right next to the unconscious man when another patron, trying to get a better view of the dice game, shoved her hard and she found herself sprawling in the hunter's lap. He roused and bent a bleary gaze upon her as his arms captured her close to his pungent body.

"Ahh m'darlin', come give us a smooch!" He grinned and puckered up, swaying alarmingly close to her face. She turned her cheek to him just as his lips landed with a loud smack on her chin. One of his hands reached down and pinched her bottom and she swallowed an enraged scream, making it come out as an astonished squeak.

Despite the drunken fog clouding Arek's mind, Micah's distress didn't go unnoticed. He let his gaze wander up slowly, to avoid attracting the attention of his companions, and spotted Micah trapped in a corner with one of the less alcohol-resistant hunters pawing all over her. He grit his teeth into a forced smile, twisting his lips into a sneer as he tossed down another shot. Hopefully the woman knew what she was doing, but the longer he stared the angrier he got.

"Hehehe, dearie, y'er an armful!" The man was sloppily mouthing her neck, drooling down her back as she reached inside his coat for the book. One of his groping hands pawed her chest and she wriggled to get away. Arek's grip tightened around another glass and he heard it crack under his grip as he tore his eyes away from the sight.

Micah's desperate gaze fastened upon a half full mug of ale and she snagged it and pushed it into the pawing hand. "Ahh, d'lightful gel! Thinkin' o' me thirst!" he tipped the back the brew, as much running down his beard as landing in his gullet. With a small sound of disgust, she bracketed the hunter's Adam's apple with her thumb and fingers, applying pressure without blocking his airway, enduring the continued groping until his hands fell slack. She hadn't killed him, but he would have a monster of a headache when he awoke.

Snatching the book and pushing away from the inert man, she slipped out of the carousing mob and hastily retreated upstairs. Shaking with the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, Micah sat at the little table in her room, opening the cover of the journal. Her eyes widened as she exhaled sharply. Dread spiraled at the base of her spine, raking its icy fingers up her back and into her hair. The words in the book, though smudged by time, pulsated on the page before her in her native tongue. She began to read.

* * *

 _January 12th, 0001 … We've found ourselves stranded here, a world very much like Earth. The date on this journal entry is arbitrary and I chose it just because this is our first year here since that portal sucked us through eleven days ago. Maybe it had something to do with what the Stargate group was doing, who knows? Don't you just love the military? So original. So, here we are - the Super Soldier group - stuck in a frikin' cold environment with our lab intact, but no electricity to run anything, let alone anything like a server to retrieve database material. At least we were lucky enough to pop into some sort of structure and there's ample scrap wood to build a fire. Most of us, anyway. Only half of Greaves came through. It was gruesome. Dr. Micah didn't come through at all. I hope at least she died faster than Greaves had. God, nobody deserves to die like that._

 _The place is pretty deserted. Not sure who lived here, but their architecture is astounding. Luckily, we did have weapons with a fair amount of ammo, and the local fauna seems very familiar. Rabbits, wolves and deer. Go fig. At least we won't starve and Ted Johannson says he used to hunt all the time with his pop in the Great Smokies. I hope he's a better shot than he is a lab tech, though. I know for a fact the colonel was going to sack him and send him packing just before the big explosion._

* * *

Micah didn't hear the witcher come up the stairs. She barely heard him enter, her attention was so riveted on the words written in the journal. Her hands were shaking and her face had gone bloodless as she studied line upon line.

"Did we get it?" asked Arek, his words only slightly slurred. He was alarmed when she turned her face to him and looked like she had seen the specter of death. She gulped compulsively, looking down at the page she had been reading before turning wide, shocked eyes on him.

"Damn, woman, you're scaring me. Let me look." He took the book from her nerveless fingers and peered at the strange runes there. It wasn't common, elder or anything he had ever learned, but it looked like she was able to read it. He could hear her heartbeat racing in her chest and detected the fine tremors in her hands. "Care to tell me what's got you upset?"

She closed her eyes and took a deep, steadying breath. "You wouldn't believe me if I did," she said. "It's too fantastical."

"Try me." There was no trace of the alcohol in his voice now, as he crouched in front of her.

"This journal is written in my native language," she answered. "I'm not from this world. I'm from a place called Earth and I think the people I had been working for …" She stopped, searching for the words with visible effort, "that I was … the research we were conducting was... is responsible for everything. The conjunctions, the monsters …. Witchers …" Her gaze swung up to connect with his.

He barked a laugh that died when he looked in her shattered eyes. "Shit."

"Just so," she agreed.

"What do you mean you're responsible for witchers?" He stood and started pacing.

She looked down at her hands, "I was a geneticist for a government think tank. My research was all about creating humans with enhanced abilities - greater strength, accelerated healing, swifter reflexes." A sardonic look settled on her face.

"We manipulated DNA from animals and used stem cell and phage therapy techniques alongside radiation and chemical bombardment to rewrite the genetic code." She smiled and her voice rang with remembered triumph. "Results with young rats were phenomenal and we created a viable variant that bred true through four entire generations." Her triumph faded then, "My team and I moved on to Bonobos, a type of great ape, due to their similarity to humans. It was harder to get the changes to stick, and the mortality was greater than sixty percent at first. We eventually got that down to twenty five percent and, again, crafted a viable variant that bred true." Micah shrugged her shoulders eloquently. "Human trials were set to begin the day of the accident.

"There was another research group in the same facility as us. Their code name was the Far Star project, but we all called them the Stargate group - I'll explain why that's so funny some other time." Arek looked at her in concern, Micah didn't sound like she was laughing. She continued, "I'm not a physicist, but they were messing around with quantum particles, trying to fold space. They must have folded it the wrong way. I think it was the explosion of their project that created your 'Conjunction of the Spheres' and transported us all here. The rest of my group and our laboratory must have appeared hundreds of years before I landed alongside a road in Velen, twenty five years ago, where I was found by the squire who took me in."

He just stared at her, still trying to wrap his mind around strange words like 'geneticist' and 'phage therapy' and 'quantum particles'. "Is this all some sort of magic that you were involved in?" He asked, trying to keep his voice neutral, struggling with what he THOUGHT she had said. He had stopped pacing and sat on the bed's edge.

She snorted scoffingly. "Science, not magic. Though I suppose they are similar. The only magic where I come from is the kind that's performed by entertainers in circus shows or at a kid's birthday party. There's no power in it, just sleight of hand." Micah stood and pressed her face against the cool window. "We were a technological people. Machines made our magic for us. We were so clever we thought we wouldn't screw it all up." Her laugh was full of irony and self recrimination as her head fell into her hands.

Arek felt sick with the bile rising in his throat, remembering his personal Trial of the Grasses, and the one he had witnessed decades later. How could this woman, whom he had started caring for, be part of something similar to that torture? He swiped a hand down his face, glaring at her in confusion and anger.

"Tell me about your mutations, Arek." She dared to look at him, chewing that bottom lip. "It may not even be the same thing. Only in concept. It took two decades to succeed with the bonobos."

"Did they suffer?" His voice was ragged.

"It wasn't pleasant for them." She shrugged, looking down at her toes, "Chemotherapy and radiation tear the cells apart. It's a matter of achieving your goal before you kill your subject."

"Did you torture them?" Each word was enunciated and his eyes spit golden fire at her.

Micah hugged herself, "If you were to ask the animal rights groups, yes we did." She sighed. "The animals were sick and weak during the process, and they suffered pain. We kept them sedated through the worst of it." She quickly defended. "When their immune systems were stripped down and their genetic sequences disrupted enough to accept the changes."

Arek nodded and took a shuddering breath and began to speak, "The Trial of the Grasses, it's called. It started with a special diet of herbs and mushrooms for several months before they took us for selections. Their laboratory was stuck in a deep hole, a cave so far away from the main fortress that our screams couldn't be heard by the rest of the initiates." The witcher's voice dropped to a whisper as he hunched over his knees. "Or how pitifully we pleaded for mercy as they tore our insides to shreds." His fists clenched tightly in his lap. "I begged them to let me die. To make the pain stop. But they just kept me strapped to the table, pumping mutagens into my body as a sorcerer poured magic after it, forcing me to change, ripping me apart until I felt I would never be whole again, until I was remade into this." He was bitter, resentful as he gestured to his eyes.

His voice grated harshly in the small room. "I was the only survivor in my selection group. Three boys died of aneurysms, two of heart failure and one, his major organs, including his eyes, dissolved. Each of them took a very, very long time to die." He relived it all in that moment.

Micah shivered, not quite knowing how to react. "I would need to see documentation about the process to know for sure it was derived from mine. I actually know very, very little about magic and how it works." She had turned her back to him, afraid to see what his eyes would hold for her now. "Would it be possible get that information?" she asked in a muted tone.

His bark of laughter echoed off the walls as he sneered at her back. "Witchers don't divulge their secrets, Micah. I've told you too much already."

Micah took a shaky breath, feeling the razors of his glare dig into her spine. "At the very least, we need to make sure the witch hunters don't get access to that information." She looked over her shoulder briefly. "Where's the nearest school?"

He scowled and evaded her question, barking one of his own. "What were YOU trying to do? Did your world need witchers to combat monsters? Wasn't your 'technology' enough to keep you safe?" Venom dripped from his words.

"No." She shook her head sadly, "We were developing super soldiers for war. Hardly a good purpose, but that's what happens when governments get involved." Defensively she added, "We weren't the only ones, there were two other superpowers working on the same kind of research." Her choked laughter sent a chill down his spine. "Lucky us. We got tapped and told we were going to revolutionize modern warfare. Make mutants to fight our battles for us so 'decent' men didn't have to die."

"Damn!" He wanted to shout, but kept his voice an enraged hiss, "How is that any better than the Flaming church?" He lashed at her with every word.

"It's not. But I won't attempt to justify what I did. To you or anyone." She straightened her spine and placed her hands on the window sill. "Just know this. If you didn't go along with what you were told to do, you were deemed to be a liability." Her face was bleak. "Liabilities and their families ended up dead. I had grandchildren to protect, a great granddaughter. I couldn't just expose the research to the public or even quietly walk away."

For a moment silence surrounded them, then the witcher heard her barely whispered sob, "Believe me, I wanted to."

The man didn't want to believe she had any remorse. "Grandchildren?" Arek scoffed, disbelievingly. "Just how old are you, Micah?"

"I was seventy seven when the explosion happened." She replied, "The rift … it took me apart, disassembled me down to the quantum level." Micah shivered, remembering the experience. "There was nothing like linear time during the transit. It lasted forever and it lasted no time at all." She shook her head, gesturing down her body, "But when it spit me out, I had … reassembled. And I looked like this. Like I did when I was in my early twenties. That was twenty five years ago, Arek, and I haven't aged since."

She moved to stand in front of him, gently slipping the book from his grasp. Smoothing a hand over the ancient cover, she sighed. "I understand if you want nothing more to do with me. It's ok if you leave me here. I can find my own way to Novigrad."

Arek could hear the resignation trembling in her voice. Even now her vulnerability called to him, begging his understanding and the witcher was amazed he could still be attracted to her. Micah's face was hidden in shadow as she wandered to her rucksack and put the journal away, but he noticed the shimmer of moisture dusting her cheeks. The desire to wipe away her tears, to pull her into the comfort of his arms shook him as he realized he still wanted her. He should be disgusted by her. Those confessions had poured vinegar into old wounds that had festered quietly for centuries.

Arek stood, careful not to touch her. "Seems to me that you're the only one who can read that journal." His hand raked through his dark hair, "If we're going to stop the witch hunters in whatever idiocy this is, we need to know what's in it." Arek shoulders were tight and his face harsh with suppressed emotions. "I'm headed to Lan Exeter, to the University there. Come with me and we'll figure out where we need to go from there."


	9. Through Swamp and River

**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**

 **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

 **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**

* * *

 _Gonna ride across the river, deep and wide,_

 _Ride across the river to the other side._

 _Dire Straits "Ride Across The River"_

* * *

Arek entered his own room, dumping his armor and weapons on the single chair before throwing himself to the soft bed. His mind churned with everything Micah had shared. In the admittedly short time he had known the woman, she hadn't purposely tried to hide anything from him and she didn't act crazy now, either. No, she was being honest about this and he believed her. She had shown none of the telltale signs of lying.

He wanted to hate her, but somehow, Arek couldn't do it. She had looked adrift when he left her, folded in on herself, standing at the window and weeping silently. Her chin hadn't wobbled, nor had she made a show of sniffles and wailing. She just stood with her back to him as tears coursed down her cheeks, her ragged breathing quiet, but still evident to his sensitive hearing.

Arek scrubbed at his beard, thinking about returning to the taproom to get well and truly drunk, then shook his head. It was late now and he wanted an early start to avoid the witch hunters. They could go west and try to find a boat to sail toward Novigrad on their own, but that would take time he didn't have. The best route, he finally decided, would be to cut through the marshland directly to the North and cross the Pontar at a wild place he knew where it would be relatively easy to get the horses across safely. Decision made, he settled at last and his final thought before drifting off was of soft, kissable lips and cinnamon eyes a man could drown in.

* * *

The glass was cool on Micah's tear streaked face as she pressed her cheek to the window pane. The look of revulsion in Arek's eyes when she had told him about her research broke her heart. She wouldn't have thought his regard was so important to her until that moment, but it was far too late for regrets. She had begun to treasure their time together and she would miss falling asleep in his arms tonight. Her small memories of the last two days would have to be enough to keep her warm. The little geneticist hoped they could, at least, be cordial for the rest of the journey.

The nightstand held a bowl of clean water and cloths that she used to wipe the stains of grief from her face. Still fully clothed, Micah lay down on the bed, her head spinning with memories. It had been twenty years since she last thought about her old life, but in that hazy border between waking and sleeping, she reflected on her research. The eyes had been hard to change, splicing the traits for vertical pupils and a tapetum lucidum, the reflective membrane behind the retina of the eye found in some animals, had posed special challenges. Finally, a fitful sleep spun her into fractured nightmares of cat eyes and shadowed men torturing a young Arek with chemical and radiation agents. In her dreams, she turned into the shadowed torturers and he pleaded with tearful eyes for her to stop killing him.

Micah awoke with a start just before dawn broke to a low knock at her door. Her head was pounding in time to the rapid thumping of her heart. She sat up and pressed her eyes with the base of her palms. _'God I could use a bath.'_ She thought, stumbling out of bed to let Arek into the room. Maybe when they reached Novigrad and disappeared into the bustle of the city, she could indulge in a long hot soak. She darted a glance at the big man as he entered the room, but she felt awkward with him for the first time since she had rescued him. Turning her back to him and reaching for the brush packed in her gear, she set about pulling tangles out of her long hair so she could put it up for travel.

Arek leaned against the door and quietly watched her struggle with her heavy auburn tresses that surrounded her in silky strands. Despite last night's revelations, he couldn't extinguish the desire to wind his hands into the shining mass, imagining it laid out across the pillow on her bed as he took her hard and slow. His throat worked convulsively, the vision of what she would look like spread beneath him floating in his brain. She suddenly shifted around, trying to corral her hair to start the braid, giving him an enticing view of her plump, unbound breasts pressing into the front of her shirt, nipples outlined under the rough fabric. Arek was nearly undone, his heart thudding loudly in his ears as he subtly shifted to ease the growing tightness in his britches. He fought to keep his breathing under control, and turned away before he did something he knew he'd regret.

Micah, entirely unaware of the effect she had on him or the direction of his thoughts, finished with her hair then packed her meager belongings, slipping her feet into her worn boots. She still felt ashamed of the past and what it had meant for Arek personally. _'It's easy,'_ she reflected, _'to do things when the consequences don't have a familiar face.'_

"Let's get going." He growled more harshly than he intended as he turned back to face her once she was ready. "Novigrad is still two days away and we need to cross the Pontar. I would like to avoid checkpoints if we can. You can swim, right?" He asked suddenly, his eyes narrowing.

She inspected a knothole in one of the floorboards at her feet, then nodded. "Yes, I can swim. I suppose all the bridges and ferries are guarded on one side or the other of the river."

"Yeah. I have documentation that should keep Imperial forces from giving us too much trouble, but the Redanians probably won't care about that, and I want to avoid the hunters as much as possible." He pulled something from his satchel and handed her a folded square of thin, greased hide big enough to wrap the journal several times, and a thong of leather to secure it tightly in place. "Here. It's some oiled cloth to wrap that book in, and any other documents you might want to keep dry."

"Arek," she stepped forward tentatively as she took the items from him, "for what it's worth, I'm sorry."

"For what?" he crossed his arms over his chest, looking imposing, wanting to cut off this discussion before it progressed further. His feelings were still visceral and raw, but he was a witcher and damned if he was going to get into some emotional display because of it.

"I'm sorry that I had any part in your suffering. I'm sorry for what my people did that caused the necessity of it." She chewed her bottom lip, her brows creased in worry.

"I still don't know what I think about all of this, but I don't hate you. I can't seem to." He rumbled. The temptation to touch her grew and, with a groan, he gave in to it, cupping Micah's cheek with one hand and pulling her against him with the other at her trim waist. She looked at him in surprise as he gentled her mouth with a stroke of his thumb, dipping his mouth to hers. Arek closed his eyes as he kissed her, just the barest meeting of lips that made his world shift into place. He pulled back enough to rest his forehead against hers, knowing they didn't have time to do more.

Arek's voice was a low whisper that drifted across her face. "I don't like what you were involved with, but if it weren't you, it would have been someone else." His sense of humor quirked then and he grinned at her. "And they wouldn't be nearly so enjoyable to kiss as you are." Then, reveling in her outrage, he stole another kiss, dancing backward before she had a chance to smack him.

A heavy thud shook the door behind them and a grumbling voice cursed early mornings and late nights from the other side. The inn was stirring to life. Arek grumbled, "Time to go. You ready?" She nodded, the blush quickly fading from her cheeks. Micah scooped up her rucksack, settling it on a shoulder. He already had his gear at hand as he opened the door into the still deserted hall.

They made their way down to the common room, keeping their heads down and trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Daylight peaked over the edge of the world, turning the morning pink and gold in the lingering mist as they exited the tavern. None of the witch hunters seemed to be up, which was fortunate. Neither of them wanted any kind of confrontation.

* * *

They stayed off the roads and veered north by north east, toward the Pontar delta where the river began to mix with the sea and created salt marshes. Their way was slower, but relatively safer, avoiding soldiers and priests alike. Arek and Micah spent a night in the open, unmolested by men or monsters, falling back into their familiar traveling rhythm.

Eventually, dry ground gave way to pockets of marsh grasses and stagnating water, the faint smell of rotting vegetation carried on breezes from the river. The pair was able to make camp on a hill overlooking the spreading wetlands, grateful for dry ground.

Arek did his best to be charming as they lazed before a cheery blaze after eating supper, and took every opportunity to touch her. He draped an arm around her shoulders as he named the night sounds that echoed from the marsh, pulling her in close when she shivered. When it was time to settle for sleep, he cocooned them tightly together in his bedroll, gazing down into her face with heavy lidded eyes. But when he moved to stroke her cheek, she shook her head.

"Don't." She whispered, turning away from him, "I can't... It's not a good idea ... I'm sorry."

He grumbled, but managed to restrain himself, instead giving her a chaste kiss to the top of her head as he spooned into her, lending her his heat while he settled into a state of meditative readiness. Though they'd had a peaceful day traveling over the countryside, he knew the dangers that lurked here in the dark.

Arek roused her early the next morning and they got on their way, coming to the ruins of an old fort after a few hours of travel. Arek took them in a wide arc around it, claiming to hear the tell tale clicking of large insectoids. He told her of a crossing where they would be required to do minimal swimming, but warned her to stay close as drowners frequented swamps. The witcher lectured her about the monstrous fauna they could expect to encounter, educating her on the finer points of identifying the different types of necrophages and their respective niches in the ecology of the swamps.

A disgusting sucking sound was their first clue they weren't alone in one of the stinking, soggy holes they had to cross to get to the river. The second clue was the intense and immediate stench of rot; rotting vegetation, rotting fish, rotting bodies that washed over them in undulating waves. A hairsbreadth of time after the stink hit them, a bog hag surged out of the mud under Micah's horse and latched onto its rump with razor sharp talons. The roan screamed and reared, throwing Micah into the marshy waters beneath its stamping hooves. The hag hissed and clawed at the bucking horse, uncaring that the unfortunate rider was being trampled below.

Arek flew off Saki, drawing his silver sword as he did so. His mind and body instantly falling into the deathly calm of combat. "Here, you bitch!" He thundered at the monster as he expertly twirled the blade and downed a potion, his veins popping up black against his suddenly ashen skin as the brew took effect. He charged in and swiped at the hideous thing, scoring a line on its arm and drawing attention away from the horse, allowing the animal to dance away. The hag hissed at him and its tongue whipped out faster than the blink of an eye, but he parried and cut it off with a rapid, hard moulinet. He pirouetted around the thing and slashed a deep gash along her back, trying to draw her away from the panicked horse. The hag reached a very long arm behind her to claw the witcher and drew back, screaming as he brought his silver sword in a murderous arc, lopping off her talons at the wrist. He followed with a spinning upper cut that split its head - from hoary chin to mottled brow, killing it cleanly.

He stumbled a bit as the marshy ground sucked at his feet and reached into the muddy water where he had seen Micah fall. She was still as death, and definitely not breathing, when he pulled her up and he noted the large knot on her forehead.

"Damn. You better not die on me, woman!" he raged, sheathing his sword. With her back to him, he tugged her into a tight embrace, a hand clenched into a fist just below her rib cage while the other covered it. He pulled sharply in and up at her diaphragm, repeating the motion twice, and was rewarded as she vomited water and muck, before sucking in a great whoosh of air. He held her as she expelled the remains of the filth she had inhaled, shivering in his arms. The witcher stood, lifting her from the midst of the sucking mud and struggled to carry her the distance to the patch of solid ground Saki was standing on.

Arek lowered her down to the grass and found the roan, limping in shock, some distance away. The animal would never make it across the river, he knew. Gritting his teeth, he quickly put it out of its misery and stripped the dead animal of its tack and packing before heading back to Micah.

She was unconscious, an inflamed bruise spreading across her forehead from sharp hooves, and he shook her to wake her up. Her eyes opened weakly and she blinked in confusion.

"Arek? What happened?" she whispered in a voice that was barely there. Micah's face was pale and her eyes would not focus.

"Hag got your horse, horse got you." He forced with a smile. "I'm going to get you out of here, but I need you to stay with me, alright?" She nodded vaguely and closed her eyes again. "Micah! MICAH!" He yelled, his grip tightening around her shoulders.

"Mmmhmmm. Head hurts," she mumbled incoherently.

He quickly saddled Saki and got Micah settled with their gear, using axii to calm the horse and accept the bit. He made sure any papers, books and documents they had between them were well secured in oilskin and tucked into the top of Micah's pack, then he got her on the horse and tied her in place. He shook her again and made her look at him.

"We're crossing the Pontar here. I need you to hang on to the horse. LISTEN, HANG ON TO HER MANE!" He shouted close to the woman's pale face, making her eyes open wider. She obeyed and wrapped her hands in Saki's silky, chocolate colored mane.

"I think I have a concussion." she murmured, desperately trying to hold on to consciousness.

"Yeah. Once we cross the river we can set up camp, but I gotta get you there first." he ground through clenched teeth. He dearly hoped there was nothing between them and the opposite shore.

Taking the reins in one hand and the bridle in the other, he walked the horse to the water and encouraged her to start swimming. Whether by blind luck or the intervention of the fates, they made their way across without any further mishap. Unless one counted the Redanian patrol that surrounded them as they emerged from the river a mishap.


	10. Hail Redania

**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**

 **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

 **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**

* * *

"Lookie what we got here, Cap'n," said a particularly rough example of Redanian manhood, "a Black spy and his witch!"

"Oiye, what'll we do wi' em?" snarled another, with an ugly leer on his face, licking his chops as he looked the wounded woman over.

"Stand aside, you lot." The order was barked loudly, sure and cultured. A man bearing the colors of a Redanian officer came forward. "Who are you and what are you doing here, crossing the Pontar illegally? Speak quickly before I let my men have at you."

"I'm a witcher, fulfilling my contract. Taking this woman back to her family. She's injured and I needed to get her across before nightfall." Arek kept his voice impassive, yet allowed a hint of deadly promise to spike in his eyes.

The captain stalked to the horse where Micah was tied and noticed the prominent lump on her head and bruises along her pale features. "Contract? Who is she and what happened?"

"Her father hired me in Talgar. She had been in Vizima visiting her mother's aunt when Nilfgaard attacked. I was hired to retrieve her." The witcher continued to spin his lie with a straight face. "We were moving up the Pontar, avoiding troops, deserters and squirrels when a bog hag attacked her horse. She was trampled in the melee before I could kill the monster. I needed to ford the river as I didn't relish the idea of camping with an injured woman in the swamp." He subtly shifted his weight and moved his left foot a half step behind his right. His hands were held up as if he were offering supplication to the soldiers, bristling around him with hostility and twitchy sword arms. His breathing slowed and his stance appeared relaxed.

The Captain pried up one of the girl's lids and looked at her eye. She tried to pull away, mumbling irritably, and batted at his hand. "We have a camp not far from here, witcher, and a barber-surgeon. Come, let us make the girl comfortable and see what he can do."

An hour later, Arek had Micah tucked into a cot inside a bivouac tent, and was busy discussing the merits, or lack thereof, to bleeding as a treatment for concussion. It was loud, with violent and frequent gesticulations on the part of the barber surgeon. Arek stood his ground, growling that the only thing that had ever come about from leeching an injured party was the demise of that party from blood loss not long after. The barber-surgeon tromped away after a while and sat near the fire, freely imbibing a flask of vodka, and sulking about know it all witchers.

"How you feeling, love?" Arek asked, kneeling down next to the cot when the saw-bones had stormed out. Gently he pushed strands of hair out of her face.

"My head aches. I hurt all over. I feel nauseated and I just want to sleep," She muttered somewhat more coherently, color seeping back into her features. In addition to the head injury, she had some other significant bruising. The witcher figured they were extremely lucky she had no broken bones or internal bleeding on top of everything else.

"We'll rest the night here. I think I can wrangle some sort of writ of passage out of the captain so we can move freely about on this side of the Pontar." He sat back on his heels, thinking. "If I can also get another horse, we should make it to Novigrad by tomorrow evening." In an undertone for her ears alone he added, "We won't have to contend tonight with any witch hunters who might recognize us and put two and two together."

"How do you plan on doing this wrangling?" she asked, struggling to keep her eyes open as she took his hand in hers. He only grinned and stroked her cheek.

"Don't worry about that. Just rest and gather your strength." Gently kissing the lump on her head, he added, "We'll stay at an inn tomorrow night." Then tucking her in, he walked out of the tent.

He was as good as his word. It helped that soldiers the world over loved a good game of poker dice almost as much as they appreciated good hooch, both of which he was deeply versed in. When all was said and done, he had a very pleasant buzz, another two hundred oren in his pouch, a new horse - including tack and saddle, and a writ of passage from the legion commander who had come by the camp and joined in the game. Arek had made sure to wake Micah about once an hour and was glad to see she was coming around and only a little worse for wear after the encounter with the hag.

* * *

She awoke in the crepuscular light of predawn to the rabid snores of the company. The witcher was next to her, on the ground, wrapped snugly in his bed roll. She watched him for some time, noting how his hair and beard could do with a trim, and how sleep had softened his face's stern lines into boyish innocence. His skin, though swarthy, was not dark, as if becoming a witcher had leached the color like faded cloth. Tracing the scar bisecting his face, she caressed him lightly, trailing across the bridge of his nose and over his cheek. His eyes drifted open lazily as her wandering fingers smoothed over his lips. He gently captured her hand in his own and pressed a kiss into her palm, noting that she looked better this morning, if still a little bruised and beaten.

"I'm beginning to think, you like touching my face." His rough purr was quiet.

"Yours is a fascinating face." She smiled sleepily into his eyes. "Did you win?"

He smirked, sitting up and running a hand through his beard. "I always win," he answered cheekily. "How do you feel?"

"I have a headache, but I think I'll live." She pushed herself up, the blanket pooling on her lap as she rested her feet on the ground. "If we want to make Novigrad before sunset, we better get going."

Arek chuckled at her, then as he pulled her to her feet. His voice took on a serious tone and he bracketed her face between his hands. "You tell me if you start feeling sick. We'll find an inn and to hell with making Novigrad today." She nodded and he brushed his lips over her forehead before striding out of the tent to get the horses ready.

* * *

They made good time on the road and stood their horses outside the ramparts of Novigrad just as the sun started to kiss the earth in the west. It was the largest city in the north, harboring thirty thousand souls of all descriptions, and it stank like the open sewer it was. Overlying the bouquet of human waste were notes of cabbage, the spice of unwashed bodies and an elemental essence of sheep, goats and horses. The redolent tide washed upon her olfactory senses as they waited in line to be admitted to the city, making Micah gag and retch with tears streaming down her face. With a tortured moan, she pressed her face into her mount's mane and attempted to fill her nostrils with the clean smell of horse sweat and leather.

Micah had done well earlier in the day, with only mild pain to bother her, but as they rode into the afternoon the dull throbbing in her head had slowly turned into a thumping migraine and nausea had been riding her for the last several hours. She had successfully hidden her distress from Arek until they were standing at the Portside gate. At her first whiff of Novigrad, she had slumped over her horse and struggled not to retch.

"Oiye! What's the matter wi' her!" Said one of the guards, marching up to the couple, glaring at Micah suspiciously. He hissed in a whisper to the witcher, "Take 'er away if she's sick. We don't need the Catriona here!"

"She fell off her horse yesterday," said the witcher nonchalantly, his eyes narrowing on the woman. "Got a nasty bump on her head. That's all that's wrong with her." Micah looked up toward the guard at Arek's words, giving the man a good view of the goose-egg glossing purple and red just beneath her hairline.

"Well, s'pose that would make anyone sick. Ye got papers? No one allowed in wi'out 'em." The guard was less aggressive, but neither was he willing to speed their progress.

The big man pulled out the writ he had been given by the Redanian officer. The document seemed to mollify the guard, and he motioned them through the drawbridge into the city. The witcher yanked Micah's reins from her limp grasp as he slid from his horse.

"You were supposed to tell me if you weren't feeling well." He gritted through his teeth as he led both horses through the crowded streets.

Keeping her face pressed into her dappled palfrey's mane, Micah mumbled at him. "I'm fine. Not going to hold us up for the sake of a stupid headache. We're here now and that's all that matters. I just need some fresh air, a hot bath and a good rest."

Arek could hear her swallowing convulsively, trying not to puke. "Damn stubborn woman. I can see how fine you are." His boots chipped sparks off the cobbled street as he steered them toward the docks.

The sea breeze cleared away the stench somewhat and she was able to raise her head and take great, gulping breaths to beat back her queasy stomach. Dismounting the horse was more an act of falling into Arek's outstretched arms than it was stepping out of the saddle, and she clung to him as the world spun alarmingly. The witcher felt the small tremors that shook through her and expelled a foul curse, leading her to a wooden pillar near the stables for her to slump against. He got the horses settled in two nearby stalls with fresh hay and a trough full of water, then, shouldering their saddlebags and her rucksack, he moved to pick her up too.

"I can walk on my own." Micah huffed, and started to wobble off toward the inn.

"The hell you can!" Arek swore, scooping her small frame into his arms as his angry strides carried them to the door of the inn.

"Put me down, dammit! I don't need you carting me around!" She protested and beat feebly at his shoulders.

"Shut up." Was all he said as he carried her into the smoky interior of the Golden Sturgeon. Micah's arms came around him and she pressed her face into his throat as the smells of rancid ale and cabbage assaulted her. She moaned as the nausea returned.

The innkeep bustled up, looking into Arek's face with a sour expression. He wasn't fond of witchers, he didn't know anyone who was, but the woman … he didn't need someone carrying disease.

"Only gots one room left tonight. She sick?" Asked the skinny man, peering at Micah where she lay in Arek's arms.

"She'll be fine by morning. Nothing a night of rest won't cure." Arek was getting tired of the question and he fought hard to keep his voice and expression emotionless.

"No fisstech in the rooms an' ye pay for any damages ye cause. Be needin' food or anythin' else?" The innkeep produced a key from a jangling ring at his belt.

"Yeah, a maid, food, and a hot bath for the girl." Arek followed the man up a set of stairs. After awkwardly accepting the key from the other man, he stepped into the small room.

"A maid, ye say. What kind'a establishment do ye take this for?"

"I need someone to help her bathe." Arek's patience was wearing thin and he spoke sharply. "To preserve her dignity, I'd rather not do it myself." Noting the innkeep's doubt he added in a calmer tone, "I'll pay for the extra trouble."

The innkeep relented with a sigh, absentmindedly patting the coin purse at his side. "A'ight, I'll send Abby up. She'll 'elp out yer lass, but there better not be any funny business," he warned, shaking a boney finger at the witcher.

"Most appreciated."

"Hah." The innkeep left, leaving the weary pair alone.

Arek set Micah down on the bed and their baggage at its foot. Reigning in his temper, the big man began pacing, pausing to look at her, then shaking his head and pacing some more. She looked pitiful and he cursed himself for not insisting they stop earlier.

"I'm sorry," she breathed in a thready voice. "I was doing fine until we got to the city. I could smell ... everything … all of a sudden." She glanced up sheepishly, huddling into a ball of misery, rubbing her temples with her fingers.

"You didn't just suddenly start feeling ill." His eyes narrowed, not quite ready to let her off the hook. "You've been sick all day and didn't see fit to tell me." The man continued to grouse at her, though he kept his voice low, not liking her pallor. "If you had told me a lot sooner, we would have stopped."

"Arek, stop fretting. I'm ok. Really. You're acting like a mother hen. A night of rest is really all I need." Micah threaded her fingers through her hair, ignoring how her hand shook.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. "There are things I have to take care of. I'll wait for whoever they send to get here with the bath before I go."

She nodded feebly. "Go do what you need to do. I can manage on my own." Her voice was muffled as she pressed her face to her knees, which she had drawn up and wrapped her arms around.

Abby appeared then, leading a kitchen boy dragging a copper tub and two others with buckets of steaming water. Arek gave the barmaid brief instructions, before turning his attention back to his companion. "As long as we're traveling together, don't keep things from me, do you understand?" He spoke harshly, scowling when Micah flinched. When she nodded her understanding he continued, "It's my job to keep us both alive and I can't do that if you go getting ass stubborn." He spun on his heel then, his steps beating an angry staccato as he trampled down the stairs and out of the inn.

The witcher stood for a moment in the cool of the evening, letting the sea air leach the ire out of him. He tried to make sense of his emotions, at a loss to explain how he could have formed such a strong attachment to a willful woman he barely knew. He decided it had to be enforced company coupled with his prior injuries. He needed to get her out of his system with a visit to Crippled Kate's. Maybe if he took the edge off with a prostitute or two, he could think more clearly.

A short time later, Arek found the captain of an independent merchant trader, striking a deal to sail with the tide at the second morning bell two days hence; passage for two humans and their mounts to Pont Vanis. Already feeling more in control of himself, the big man headed for the center of the city, flipping a coin over the backs of his fingers, then tossing it in the air and catching it as he walked. The trinket was nothing he could trade for goods or services, it was a token for the Elven Baths, marked so his contact would meet with him. Once he had conducted business and gotten himself cleaned up, he would visit the brothel.

* * *

Hours later, Arek silently entered their room in the Sturgeon. It was nearing midnight and he found the little woman sprawled on her belly atop the coverlet, wrapped loosely in a towel and fast asleep. Her hair was jumbled about her and still a little damp from a thorough scrubbing. He lost himself for a moment in the heady perfume of lilacs combined with something that was uniquely Micah's scent. Stepping to the bed, the witcher stood looking down at her, trying to understand this hold she had on him.

He had gone to the bordello, anticipating a few hours of vigorous sex with any one of the many willing girls there. He had perused Madam's stables and found not a single mount to his liking. He had even gone so far as to hire one strumpet who bore a remote resemblance to Micah, but ended up spending an hour sipping wine and just talking with her, oddly feeling no desire to bed her. Now, looking down on this slim woman who made him crazy, he felt his need rise as he watched her deep, slow breaths. He couldn't rationalize it at all. She had never done anything remotely seductive to spur him on, yet he felt like a fly caught in a spiderweb. Ever since their first, desperate kiss.

The big man silently stripped himself of his armor, laying his weapons across the back of a chair carefully. When he stood in nothing but his leather britches, he sat at the edge of the bed and trailed his hand through Micah's hair, careful not to awaken her. He had never touched it like this, unbound and curling around her body. She wasn't up to any kind of physical loving yet, he thought, but he didn't know if he could keep his hands to himself if he shared the bed with her tonight. Not with her so enticingly close and conveniently undressed.

He shook his head at his own thoughts. Witchers didn't form attachments. They moved from place to place and took whatever pleasures they were offered or could purchase. When their contract was done, they rode to the next place and repeated the process.

Bitterness suffused his deep sigh as he stood and pulled the coverlet over Micah's sleeping form. He spread his bedroll on the floor next to the bed and settled down; using every meditation trick he knew to corral his desire and actually rest. A new sheaf of papers had been secreted into the hidden pocket of his satchel and a pouch of gold crowns provided a comforting weight at his belt. He let his eyes drift shut and his body relax into sleep, with a final thought flickering across his consciousness, _'At least I completed my contract.'_

* * *

Arek awoke in the morning feeling every splinter from the rough wooden floor poking through his bedroll. Micah was still asleep and he spent several minutes just listening to her steady breathing. When she got up, he'd catch a more comfortable nap on the bed. They wouldn't be leaving till after midnight anyway.

As he lay there, he considered what he wanted. Arek had been on the Path most of his life, the days blurring one into another. He had outlived all his brother Manticores, and had stopped going to Kaer Mardyakhor thirty or forty years ago to winter elsewhere when it just got too damn depressing to watch castle walls crumble into ruins with nobody there to maintain them.

Though he wanted, needed, the warmth of human companionship from time to time, there was no one he currently counted as a friend. All of those had died of old age long ago, or on the witcher's Path. Micah was the first person in a very long time to assault the walls of his solitude. He shook his head. Entanglements meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant death on the Path. Determining to regain his objectivity, Arek stood and pulled on his clothing, armor and weapons, careful not to awaken the sleeping woman. He stretched and went in search of breakfast.


	11. Belleteyn

Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!

Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!

Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.

* * *

The first thing Micah noticed when she awoke was the absence of the headache. She reveled in that for a few moments before her mind turned to the second thing. Arek wasn't here. He hadn't slept in the bed with her, though he must have come in late after she fell asleep as his satchel was draped over the chair. Clasping the towel to her slight frame, she dug in her rucksack for the clean clothing that lay in the bottom. It was fortunate the canvas of the bag had kept the contents dry when she was drowning in the swamp, otherwise she would have nothing to wear. The maid had yet to return with her laundered garments.

The woman dressed in a soft doeskin skirt that brushed her ankles and a dusky green peasant blouse that bared her shoulders. It felt good to be clean again. She straightened the room, then retrieved a very light coin pouch from her belongings. It would be enough to get breakfast, she thought, if she still couldn't find Arek.

The taproom was filled with rough looking dockworkers getting their breakfast when she came down and she realized belatedly she was the only woman present other than the serving girls. The little woman spotted Arek brooding in a corner, likely where he could observe all entrances. Nothing to do but brazen it out, she started toward him. She got four paces into the room when someone grabbed her from behind and pulled her into their lap.

"Barrow, ye gots a new lass! Where ye bin hidin' her?" The man was older, sinewy rather than bulky and he looked at her with a keen interest out of muddy brown eyes.

Micah pushed against his chest, trying to disengage from the man's grasping hands. "Let go of me!"

"Oiye! She's got spirit!" The man laughed to his companions, who had turned to watch the little bird with interest. "Gimme a kiss, lass, an' ye can be on yer way. Ol' Jack jes wants some love!" The man gave her a gape-toothed grin and she shuddered as he pulled her closer pushing his face toward hers.

"NO! Let me go!" Fear rose in Micah's breast like a tide and she started struggling in earnest.

The ring of a blade being loosed from a scabbard silenced the entire tavern as the point of the witcher's steel appeared at the man's throat. "The lady said she wasn't interested, mate. Let her go now and we'll call that the end of it." Arek's voice was rough grated ice and the randy dock worker immediately released Micah. She fell to the floor with a solid thump and Arek held his free hand down to her, keeping his sword where it was. She took his proffered hand, letting him drag her into his left side as a hideous sneer lighted his features. "That's better. Now, we're all going to go back to our business and forget this ever happened, right?" The dock worker gulped and nodded. His friends had abandoned him, finding some other, more interesting things to occupy themselves with.

The sword sang again as he sheathed it behind his right shoulder and he led her back to his table in the corner. One of the serving girls came and topped off his ale and set another cup down for Micah. Together the pair ordered some breakfast. The wait for their food grew awkward as they stared anywhere but at each other. Something had shifted in Arek's demeanor toward her and Micah couldn't put her finger on it. She had been used to his light banter and easy teasing over the last several days, but now he seemed distant.

"Did you find passage to Kovir?" she asked nervously, wiping her palms on her thighs and trying to keep her tone light.

"Yeah. We embark just after midnight tonight and sail with the tide." He sipped his ale and spared her a quick glance. "How's your head?"

"I'm better, thank you." Micah chewed her bottom lip. "Thanks for taking care of me." She smiled at him. "In the swamp, last night and just now."

He was saved from answering her by the arrival of their food. For a stretch of time, they ate in silence, the noise in the taproom flowing around, filling in the spaces between them.

"You ever been to Novigrad before?" He asked suddenly, fidgeting with his fork, still avoiding her eyes.

"No, we did most of our business in Vizimia, and I went to Oxenfurt to study at the University. But that's as far as I have traveled before now," she answered.

He nodded as if answering his own, unspoken question. "I'll show you around. Been a few years since I've been this far north, but there should still be a stall in the open market that has the best sweet pies in the city." A grin ghosted across his face as he finally looked at her. She responded with one of her wide, wholehearted smiles that lit up her face stealing his breath away.

* * *

Novigrad wasn't as large as the cities of Micah's world, but the press of people going about their business was no less industrious than in any metropolis on Earth. They visited Hierarch's Square where preparations for Belleteyn were underway. The beginnings of a huge bonfire were taking shape and buntings of paper flowers were strewn between buildings, brightening the drab stone. A puppet theater had drawn a noisy crowd of children, attracting the little doctor and her companion to join in the merriment. They laughed at the antics of Punch and Judy for a short time, before moving on to browse the wares of the many merchants surrounding the square.

Arek pulled her along the line of stalls and they paused at a jeweler's booth where the elderly proprietress hailed them with a hearty greeting. The fat little woman peered up at the big man and grinned wide.

"A witcher! Seems there's more than a few of you floating around Novigrad this year. I saw two others in the city just three weeks ago! That's unusual enough to comment on." She nodded sagely as she brought a covered tray out from a locked cabinet in her hand cart, laying it on the smooth surface and rolling away the soft cloth. Spread out before them were a collection of witcher medallions. Two Cats hissed alongside a howling Wolf and a screeching Griffon. What drew a hiss from the witcher, however, was the twin to his own medallion, a Manticore.

Arek stroked a finger across the front of the snarling lion's face bracket by bat like wings, his expression inscrutable. "Are these authentic?" he asked. His voice grew emotionless.

"Aye, as far as I can tell." The merchant lowered her voice and said, "Can't really check to see if they shake in the presence of magic, not with witch hunters and the priests around every corner, here. But the man who sold them to me said they were."

There was one way to know for sure. Arek lowered his hand and carefully formed the sign so his movements were hidden by Micah and the merchant's truckle cart. He cast a very weak quen on himself, feeling his own medallion vibrate in response to the magical energy. One of the Cat medallions also vibrated along with the Manticore symbol. He picked up the two pendants and asked the price.

"I'll give you the whole lot for a hundred and fifty crowns." she said, her eyes narrowing as she settled in to haggle.

"I'll give you fifty for these two." He held them up in his palm.

The fat woman considered the deal. She could easily make more knock offs of the remaining Cat, Wolf and Griffon models and she had made a cast of the Manticore just last evening. Only a true witcher or a magic user would know the difference and the copies sold well to commoners. She smiled sincerely then said, "Seventy five crowns and they are yours, master witcher."

"Sixty-five." He countered, his eyes narrowing.

"You drive a hard bargain, sir, but I'm a woman of business." She produced a small velvet bag and Arek let her put the two pendants into it as he fished out his coin. "Is there anything else I can interest you in? A pretty necklace for your sweetheart, perhaps? Or a promise ring to grace her finger?" The old lady turned a sweet smile on Micah, thinking the woman needed some adornment to bring out her looks.

Micah shook her head and smiled at the lady. "I don't usually wear jewelry. I'm afraid it would be wasted on me." She laughed as she pulled Arek away from the stall. They walked toward Temple Isle slowly, and she finally broke the silence.

"Why did you buy the medallions?" She had a guess, but wanted to hear his explanation.

The big man sighed looking into the blue sky of early afternoon. "When a boy passes all the trials, he receives his medallion. It becomes part of him. A witcher never takes it off for very long." He looked at her significantly, "I've known a few who forsook the Path and abandoned theirs, but by and large, finding a medallion at a merchant's stall means the owner is dead. I don't like to see them hawked to the public like that. Feels too much like desecrating a grave."

Her voice was quiet when she spoke. "What will you do with them?"

In answer, he pulled the Manticore pendant from the jeweler's bag and placed it around her neck. "Always keep that with you. It'll tremble in the presence of magic or monsters, giving you a warning ahead of time." His touch grazed her as he placed the finely crafted medallion, a twin to his own talisman, around her slender throat and smoothed the silver chain in place with his fingers.

They walked on, climbing the path to the wide, covered bridge that connected the Temple complex to the rest of Novigrad. "I'll hold on to the Cat medallion until I find an appropriate place to bury it."

She nodded, "Where are we going?"

"Going to see if the place of power is still behind the Temple." He added with a small smirk, "You'll get a chance to feel the medallion work for yourself if it is."

He was quiet as they ambled on. If it weren't for the Eternal Fire Church and their pogroms and hatred, Micah thought she would really like it here. They arrived at the flat topped rocky outcropping the temple had been built upon. He led her around back to a standing stone with a hole about the size of her head piercing through the top. She felt her pendant shake on her breast and grasped it in her hand, a look of wonder crossing her face. Arek gave her a lopsided grin and knelt before the stone.

 _'Funny,'_ she thought, looking at the obelisk, _'The stone is warm, I can feel it reaching out toward me.'_ Micah placed her palm against the standing stone, feeling power surge into her body through her fingertips. With a gasp of shock, she swiftly stepped away, holding her fingers, inspecting them with a little fear. Arek looked at her, his brows drawn down in concern.

"What is it?" He asked, standing back up, taking her hand and soothing her with a caressing thumb.

"The stone. I can feel it ... feel it emanate. I touched it and it was like being an empty pitcher suddenly dipped into a cold spring and filled water."

"Magic users, sorcerers and the like, can channel power from these stones, let it course through them and direct it to their command." Arek said, then he rubbed his chin. "They can even store up the force within themselves to be used later. But witchers are the only ones I've ever known to actually describe the experience of touching the stones like that - being a pitcher dipped in water and filled up." He considered her from under furrowed brows. "You ever come across a place of power before?"

"No, never." She watched Arek stroke her fingers, desire spurring into her even as the echoes of the power throbbed under her flesh. Nipping at her lip, she asked, "How does it work for you?"

"I kneel close and draw the power into myself. For a while, it intensifies one sign or another that I cast, lets me put more force into it. This place of power best supports the aard sign."

He pulled her down with him as he knelt again, instructing her to quiet her mind and "reach" for the power. His left arm circled her waist and his right hand twined with hers as he laid it on the ground in front of the stone. She concentrated and felt the thrumming sparkle of energy flow into her, filling her with its essence.

"What do I do with this … magic? I've never felt anything quite like this." Arek still held her hand and had drawn power alongside her. He didn't quite know what to make of it. He himself had never touched standing stones prior to his trials. The obelisk under Kaer Mardyakor had been a closely guarded secret, only revealed once boys had passed all their tribulations and emerged as fully realized witchers.

"Let's get out of here. This isn't a discussion I wish to have so close to the Temple." He kept his voice low, looking about to see if they had been observed. He pulled her to her feet, twining his fingers with hers as they walked away quickly. They made their way well beyond the docks on the waterfront, to a secluded strip of land, protected from prying eyes.

Arek stood behind her, helping her make the sign for aard after setting up a target of driftwood, telling her to pull the power from within her and let it go on an exhale. She concentrated, feeling it gather. Forming the sign as she exhaled, she "pushed" and felt force flow from her hand, knocking the target over at five paces. She looked at Arek and grinned. "That's amazing! I've never had any aptitude for magic of any sort. They tested me at Oxenfurt – they tested everyone back then – and I didn't even jiggle their magic meter. How am I doing this?"

Arek palmed his chin in thought as he carefully considered his answer. "It's been said that anyone can learn the five signs, even common peasants. But it takes time to develop the stamina to actually implement them and most people won't ever be able to gather enough strength for them to be of any practical use." He looked down into her face, a warning note entering his voice, "Putting too much into a sign can tire even a witcher, and it could, potentially, kill you. We take this nice and slow as we figure out what your limits are."

The sun was beginning to set over the water as they set the driftwood back up and Micah tried again, putting more into the sign, quietly defying Arek's injunction toward caution. The tiny woman felt the power flux through her, draining what she had drawn earlier as she sent the pieces of wood flying twenty feet into the bay on a boom of force. She hit her knees, feeling the force drain rapidly from her body.

"Well. I see what you mean about being careful how much you put into it!" She was gasping as if she had just run a mile.

The witcher barked at her, fear twisting his usually impassive features into a snarling mask. "Dammit, I told you to be careful!" Arek wasn't impressed with her display, he was angry. He dragged her to her feet and shook her by the shoulders. "I told you not to put so much into it! You don't know what it would do to you if you aren't careful!"

"I wanted to see how strong I could make that." She huffed into his enraged glare. "Don't think I could do that without drawing from the stone again, though."

The witcher's fingers were digging into the Micah's soft shoulders and he realized he was beginning to hurt her. He softened his grip and pulled her toward him till he was looking straight down into her face, taking a deep breath to diffuse his temper. "We'll work on your signs on the way to Kovir. Do not, I repeat, do NOT put everything you've got into making them! Do you understand?" She nodded, then flashed her heart stopping smile. The little minx wasn't repentant at all and Arek groaned. He grasped her face between his palms, pressed his forehead to hers, lowering his voice to rumble at her, "Promise me, Micah. Promise me that you will heed me in this."

She laid her hands on his and tilted her head to the side. "I promise. I trust you to teach me how to know what's too much." She went up on her tiptoes and kissed his lips on those words, sending shocks of surprise and delight through him, then she spun away on a giddy laugh. "Come on, I'm hungry! You promised me sweet pies." She danced away from the hand he shot out to catch her.

"Minx!" He growled affectionately and chased after her in the dying light of the sun.

* * *

He bought two bubbling cherry pies at a stall and they gobbled them like children, grinning wickedly at each other under the stars as strains of music floated over the main square. Bonfires had been lit all over the city, allowing rich and poor alike to celebrate the last day of April according to the ancient traditions. Young people laughed and flowed around the square in an intricate chain dance, circling both the witcher and the woman in their revelry, sweeping them into their swirl of sensuality and life. Bards tuning up their instruments made the air shimmer with wisps of music and Arek tugged Micah to the dance floor where they joined couples already pairing up for a whirling country reel.

The witcher proved himself a very good dancer, leading her in a merry romp that had her gasping for breath at the end. She sparkled up at him, life lighting her eyes and his heart squeezed painfully as he was caught in her enthusiasm. Somehow, between two trilling spaces the notes of the lute left in its wake, his desire for her body matured into a consuming need for all of her. Arek felt if he didn't unite with her soon, he would burn to ash. He had never wanted a woman like this. Prostitutes and one night stands had always satisfied him in the past, but he knew they never would again. Once he immersed himself within her, she would forever be part of him. Hell, she already was.

The drums started up a new beat then, slow, like a witcher's heartbeat, and as the pipes and lutes took up the tune of life and love. Arek traced Micah's jaw with one hand and drew the woman back into a much slower dance. His eyes never left hers as they circled each other, barely touching their palms together. Turning in time to the drum beats, they switched hands and circled the other way. The flush on Micah's face made her glow. Arek swallowed, entrapped in her mysterious smile, feeling his heart thump in tempo with the song. As the music faded, he tugged Micah's hand, pulling her against his chest. Slowly, he threaded a hand into the hair whisping at her temple, angling her face up for a lingering kiss.

"We should get back to the Sturgeon and get some rest. We sail early." He purred, reluctantly drawing his lips away from the cherry flavored ambrosia of her mouth. Encircling her shoulders and folding her next to his heart, Arek led her away.

They returned to their room quickly. Arek striped out of his weapons and armor and stretched like a cat when he was in nothing but his leather britches. Micah slipped up behind him and traced the long scar she had stitched only three weeks ago.

"It's healed well." She murmured, her small hand lighting sparks under his skin as she circled around him to inspect his belly. "This one, too." She watched his abdominal muscles twitch and contract as she touched him. He looked expectant as Micah's fingertips skimmed up his chest, teasingly over his nipples, and her dusky lashes dipped over eyes heavy with desire. She pressed kisses into the scars over his chest and looked up at him, need evident in her gaze. Her lips were parted as she drew in panting breaths, small tremors shaking her as she pressed her small body into him.

Wordlessly, Arek wound her braid in his hand and let it slide through his fingers, tugging away the leather thong she used to tie it. He loosened the braid, spreading her soft, auburn waves around her shoulders then plunged his hands into the soft masses as her arms came around his neck. He angled her head up and kissed her, slow and hungry, reveling in her eager response. Taking his time undressing her, the witcher learned her curves, committing them to memory, and when they both stood naked before each other in the candlelight, he swept her slim body up and laid her down on the bed, joining her in the cocoon of blankets to love her thoroughly till they were both exhausted.

As he spooned her into his chest before they slept, he rumbled into her ear, "Why didn't you tell me you were a virgin?"

"I honestly didn't think about it. Didn't expect it, you know?" She yawned, less concerned about the matter than he was. "I was married to my husband for forty years and bore him three children, after all." Micah snuggled into him and was asleep before he could ask another question.

* * *

Gulls danced in the air floating on updrafts and daring each other to wheeling aerobatics, out screaming each other with challenging taunts. Arek and Micah stood at the rail of the Fair Maiden of Trolde with wind ruffling their hair and caressing them with the promise of springtime. It was the first of May and the ice had broken enough in Praxada bay to allow ships to return to the far north. They watched as the coastline slip into the distance, the ship finding the deep currents that carried her on her way, and Micah felt completely at ease for the first time since leaving her home some six days ago.

"So, are you going to teach me the other signs?" she asked the witcher, giving him a sidelong glance.

He rolled his eyes, looking into the sparkling water flowing past the prow of the ship. "You aren't going to let me forget, are you?" He grumbled.

"No! I want to figure this out. I may never be able to use igni to do more than heat a cup of tea, but I intend to try." She shrugged, giving him a mischievous look. "You can teach me, or I can figure it out for myself."

"And likely start yourself on fire." He sighed, then grinned. "Ok, you convinced me. Just so you don't go burning the ship down around us when you blast igni too hard."

Laughing, she smacked his chest. "You aren't going to let me live that down, are you?"

He hauled her in for a quick kiss. "Never."

Arek split his days working with her on witcher signs and practicing sword drills. Micah proved to be a reasonably apt student and was able to cast a respectable quen shield on herself with only perfunctory instruction. Her igni, however, was another story. It was pathetic, indeed, just about strong enough to heat a cup of tea. Axii, and yrden seemed utterly beyond her at this point. Arek encouraged her and said she just needed to practice and she would gain mastery, then repeated his warning that she was not to overextend her stamina to cast.

After a late afternoon meal, she watched him practice his swordsmanship in just his breeches, enjoying the play of muscles rippling beneath his well built torso. His body, despite the many scars he bore, was one of savage beauty. In the evenings, they lay together in a single bunk, talking about their plans once they arrived in Lan Exiter. They would go ashore in Pont Vanis so Arek could complete his contract then they would ride on to the winter capital together.

Micah worked on a letter to send ahead to her friend at the University there. She hoped to have a warm greeting from him when they arrived, but her Oxenfurt years were nearly two decades behind her. If all went to plan, she would be able to spend the summer in research concerning witcher mutations and pinpoint where the various schools were located. The pair had agreed that keeping witcher mutations out of the hands of the Eternal Fire Church was a priority. Living in the city would give her time, as well, to fully peruse the journal, which she hadn't had a chance to read again since that night in Toderas. Arek would resume his Path and return to her in the fall, combing the north for contracts over the summer hunting season. There was always work for the Hengfors league, and in the Dragon and Kestrel mountains. Kaedwen was not too far afield either.

"It's witcher's life," he explained one night, "to always be on the move, plying my trade."

"Do you ever get tired of it and want to do something else?" She asked.

He just shrugged. "I wouldn't know what else to do. I don't know anything but this."

Thus their days were spent during the short sea voyage until they stood on the docks wharf side in Kovir's summer capitol. Micah had entrusted the captain with her letter after he assured her a runner from the temple of Lebioda made the trek twice a day between the two royal capitals. Reassured her arrival would not be a surprise, she followed Arek into the city where they secured a room at a merchant's inn.

They bespoke a light lunch and Arek left her to her own devices as he strode away to conclude his most recent job. Micah spent some time wandering through the market square where she enjoyed an amusing puppet theater and later decided to buy some linen dress lengths and a new sewing kit. She would need some simple clothes for the summer. A trip to the apothecary found her with sufficient materials to make up a simple first aid kit as well. Her shopping expedition was rounded out with a glass of hard cider being sold by a merchant from a local apple orchard, turning the last of the previous summer's crops into coin.

Arek arrived at the merchant inn just as Mica strolled up. The sun was setting over the sea to the west and a flock of starlings were settling themselves around in the trees twittered and chirped goodnight to each other. The witcher and his woman enjoyed a heavenly platter of roast mutton and potatoes, cold ale and fresh bread, speaking easily together of their day.

"Tell me about your friend," Arek asked as they were sipping the last of their ale in the quiet warmth of the taproom.

"Dennas? Well, he and I started at Oxenfurt Academy together and had friends in common. He studied history under one of the foremost professors of the time, finishing his advanced degree when I was taking my master's exams for medicine. We kept in touch for a few years after I returned home and he accepted a post-doctoral position at the University in Lan Exiter." She propped her chin in her fist and finished her ale. "I'm honestly not even sure he's still here, but it's a place to start. Not sure what direction to go if he isn't."

The witcher scratched his beard. "If it comes to it, I'll take you with on the Path, but that's a hard road and you aren't trained to protect yourself. It would be much safer for you to stay put."

Micah didn't want to think about him leaving her. She knew his trade was a deadly one and she would worry till they were reunited. Until then, she intended to savor every moment with him. The little woman stood and held her hands out to him, moving to shelter in his arms as he rose to his feet.

"Take me to bed, witcher. You can tell me a story about one of your scars." She was a vixen, smiling at him wickedly and he decided the only honorable option he had was to do as the lady requested.


	12. Lan Exiter

_**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**_

 _ **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**_

 _ **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**_

* * *

The pair continued their journey at the break of dawn. The road was well traveled and they enjoyed birds trilling amongst the budding leaves of nearby trees as warm sunshine poured over them. It was almost surreal compared to the hell that had become Velen. Though Micah worried for her people back at the farm, she hoped they would be reasonably cared for by the Nilfgaardians. War was murder on the common folk, but it was also the common folk who weathered it best once the fighting stopped, getting on with their lives and picking up the pieces of their daily existence.

She and Arek fell into a companionable silence as they traveled, lost in their own thoughts and enjoying the respite of their journey's end, now in sight. They made the perimeter walls of Lan Exiter just before sunset, walking their horses along the cobbled streets of the biggest city in Kovir. They found her friend's house just as the sun dipped behind the mountains and the sky was streaked pink across a darkening that revealed the first shining star of the night. Nervously, Micah applied the bell and waited for what seemed forever before an elderly gentleman opened the door.

"May I help you, miss?" he inquired in the cultured tones of a professional man servant.

"Yes, I'm here to see Dennas of Delton Marsh, please. I'm Micah Von Winslow and he should be expecting me."

"Please step into the entry way and I shall inform the master," said the butler.

The two stepped inside and waited no more than ten minutes when a middle-aged gentleman emerged from a room at the back of the town house.

"Micah Von Winslow? Now THERE's a name I haven't heard in far too long! Let me look at you, my dear. Why … you haven't changed a bit!" He was rotund, with a bald patch and squinted eyes, attired in dark pants, a linen shirt with a dressing gown draped over his torso.

"Dennas! You got my message then?" she asked.

He nodded, then looked at her companion. "My my, a witcher. You are keeping interesting company these days, old girl! Come, come into dining room and we'll have supper. I had my cook prepare a turbot of veal that is quite exquisite!"

Through dinner they learned that Dennas had eschewed a wife in favor of his scholarship, his research was all about the early post conjunction period, a time with few literary references from human sources. In fact, Dennas had a contract for the Manticore, if Arek would be so good as to meet in the study before he left in the morning. It wasn't often he got to entertain a witcher and he was delighted to add to his research in that demesne. The three spoke of the war to the south, of lost Temeria and the advance of the Nilfgaardian Empire. They talked of the refugees and of Micah's lost home.

"Micah, my dear, I am sure we can find you a place here. You were always an excellent student, better than I was, certainly!" Dennton scratched his chin for a moment. "I happen to need a research assistant. It's dry and dusty work pouring over ancient tomes, but it will supply you enough to live on." Dennas blinked myopically at her and smiled charmingly.

"Dennas, I … yes, thank you. I would be very pleased to take your offer." She looked at Arek and then at her friend. "Thank you for everything, for supper and a place to stay tonight. You have been more than kind."

"Think nothing of it, my dear. You are doing ME a favor! And I won't hear of you finding some lodgings. You are welcome to stay in my home as long as you like." The rotund little man beamed a pleased smile around the room. "Now, who is up for a game of gwent?" They played the evening away in easy companionship, discussing more of Dennas's research, agreeing that Micah would accompany the scholar to his University offices the next morning.

The evening wound down and all three sought their beds. Arek led Micah up the stairs to their room, folding her in his arms as the door closed softly. He would miss her sweetness on the Path. It was a new sensation for the big man, ever accustomed to a solitary life. He had never had someone he wanted to return to before he had even left their company.

"I'll be leaving early. Got to get supplies and check town for any contracts. I'll stop in at the university before I leave." He stroked her hair, loving the play of candlelight on her face.

Micah's smile was bittersweet as she traced his medallion where it lay on his broad chest. "Let's not spend what's left of the evening talking about tomorrow, witcher." She took his hand, kissing the roughened palm. Stepping away from him with desire flickering in her eyes, she started to undress slowly, teasingly, drawing it out until he growled low in his throat.

"Micah." Her name was barely a whisper on Arek's lips as he caught her against him and plundered her mouth. She tugged at his clothes urgently, running her hands up his ridged belly, skating her fingers along his ribs. Micah pushed Arek toward the bed, standing between his naked thighs as he sank down to the mattress. Taking his face in her hands she kissed him with her whole heart and soul until they were both gasping for breath. He met her passion for passion and at the pinnacle they melded into one. Afterward, the small woman held him in her arms as he slept, tears coming to her eyes. She was in love with him and he was leaving her tomorrow. Micah didn't sleep for some time, letting her emotions have full rein, but quietly lest she awaken him. She would not allow him to give up his Path for her. She wouldn't be able to bear it if he came to resent her.

* * *

He arose early the next morning, careful not to wake Micah, and began collecting his gear and strapping his swords on his back before heading down to the study for his interview with Dennas. There were no monsters the scholar wanted him to slay, but he wished for the witcher to take the time to delve into elven ruins scattered about between the coast and the Dragon Mountains and between Povis and the Blue Mountains. Dennas provided the witcher a map that marked his points of interest and a small journal detailing what Arek was to keep an eye open for - any old books or writings, and even artifacts, that could be dated to just before and just after the conjunction of the spheres. It was something he could do alongside more traditional contracts. Dennas was offering to pay him well for every document and artifact he could return, as well as details about where he found it and if the area would be suitable for further archaeological research. They agree to the terms of the contract and Dennas handed him a wallet of expense vouchers accredited to Cianfanalli's bank to cover the witcher's travel costs.

"Now, that will ensure you have food and lodging on your way, just keep track of those expenses because I have to submit detailed records to the University Board of trustees at the end of summer." The little man tapped his fingers together. "I don't expect you to sleep beside the road, Master Arek, but I hope you'll be conservative in your choice of inns as well. I was fortunate enough to acquire a grant from His Majesty, the King and it is important to be wise with those funds!"

They went to the breakfast table then, and Arek paid tribute to Dennas's most excellent cook before he left to supply himself for his trek. He was disappointed Micah hadn't come down before he left, then let an unguarded smile light his face as he remembered what they had done well into the early hours that had tired her so. A smile that dimmed as he prepared to resume the Path.

* * *

Micah came down for her breakfast just after Arek had left. She was disappointed that she had missed him, but had little time to dwell on it as she and Dennas set off for the university just as soon as she had eaten. He gave her a tour of his department, introduced her to his interns and secretary, showed her around his archives laboratory and then escorted her to an office that he informed her she was to be using. He handed her a packet, instructing her that it needed to be thoroughly read and, if required, translated into the common tongue. Dennas concluded the tour by showing her where the ink, quills and nibs were located along side stacks of fresh pressed vellum, then left her to her work.

Hours later, the light had shifted enough to filter in from the west facing window, dancing on dust motes in the air. She looked around from her seat, stretched her cramping back and breathed in the smell of beeswax. It wasn't a large office at the Department of Antiquities and Ancient Literature, but it was hers for as long as she wanted to assist Dennas in his scholarly pursuits. Her fingers trailed over the document she had been reading, then she quickly closed it and thrust it aside hearing footsteps outside her office. She looked up when the witcher entered and closed the door behind him, his hooded eyes taking her in surrounded by the fairy sparkles the dust in the air created.

He had three new contracts folded into his belt pouch, Saki was waiting outside - loaded with Arek's bedroll and bivouac gear, and he had replenished his stock of potions and oils to the extent the ingredients were available in town. As he looked at Micah, he was swamped with an unaccountable desire to stay, to forgo the hunting season and persuade her that maybe they could make a whole life together. With annoyance, he beat back that impulse and fought to keep his thoughts off of his face.

"I'm heading out." Arek said, striving for a light tone. "Got a contract heading for the northern mountains. Some miners having troubles underground." He came to her side and his hand traced the line of her jaw, his thumb brushed against her lips and she pressed her face into his palm.

Micah looked up at him, hoping her heart wasn't in her eyes. "Well, just be sure to come back, ok? Don't die in those mountains. I would have to come get you and beat you senseless if you did." She laughed self-deprecatingly. "Seriously, Arek, take care of yourself, please," her hand covered his where it rested against her cheek.

"I always do." He looked around the little room and tamped down once again on the desire to stay with her. "If you need me …"

"I know." she breathed. "A letter left with the priests at Lebioda's Temple in Pont Vanis and addressed to the outpost in Hengfors. I might take you up on that soon. It really depends on what I find in the library here."

"I'm thinking of taking us both to winter at Kaer Morhen after this hunting season is over." He looked out the window towards the road leading out of the city. "It was the first witcher school, after all. I knew a wolf, once. Maybe he's still there."

The knowledge of what that might mean hung between them. They both knew the threat from the Eternal Fire Church was not idle and it was only right that other witchers be made aware of what was brewing. Though they had intercepted the journal, it was only a small roadblock in the way of anyone digging up the secrets that made children into witchers. They both felt the urgency of finding the rest of those secrets and safeguarding them from those who would abuse them.

It was time to go. The witcher had to leave now or he never would. Pulling her to her feet and into his arms, Arek kissed her with controlled passion. Pulling back, he pressed his forehead to hers and traced the contour of her cheek with his fingers, sweeping away a lock of hair that had come undone and drifted over her brow. Then, without a backward glance he walked out the door, knowing her cinnamon gaze followed him till he turned the corner and out of her sight.

She sighed, wiping away the tear that slid down her cheek, and picked up the abandoned tome lying in accusing silence on her desk. Lowering herself into the office chair with a wry smile, the page opened before her and she set herself to unlocking all its secrets.

* * *

Dry grass crunched under Arek's boots as he led his horse to the top of the ravine and mounted up. He had been on the Path after leaving Lan Exiter six weeks ago, and had traveled steadily south along the coast, picking up contracts, and even finding artifacts and a few writings that would satisfy Dennas and justify the money he was being paid.

He missed Micah, dreaming of her often. Two weeks after hitting the trail, his dreams had become full of her, anxiously laced with fire and fear. He chalked it up to flights of fancy and put the images out of his mind during the day. He would return to Lan Exiter for her at the end of July, he decided, and they would go on to Kaer Morhen together.

July had just gotten a good start as he rode into the fortified gates of Blaviken, thinking to find work and replenish his supplies there. Every village along the way was abuzz with news about Redania and Nilfgaard. In the taverns he visited there were dark stories of the Wild Hunt; that they searched for the destroyer of worlds and that Ragnarok was well on nigh. Arek didn't give the talk much credence but he recognized fear when he saw it. The whole north was just oil on the water awaiting a lit torch.

Blaviken was a decent sized, fortified town with high stone walls, murder holes interspersed at regular intervals and boasting several new ballistas positioned between the crenelated parapets. The town, usually humming with human activity during the peak of the day, grew silent as he rode through. Sullen looks were thrown his way and mothers hushed their children as they hustled them behind closed doors. He dismounted in the market square and led his horse to a hitching post outside a tavern. No one would meet his eye and people seemed to scurry out of his way. Inside the tavern, it was the same. There was a wall of isolation around him that no one would venture past, three feet of separation and silence that screamed, "You are different! You are unwelcome!". He had been a witcher for a very, very long time and was hard pressed to remember a reception quite this unwelcoming, ever.

He bellied up to the bar and leaned on it, attracting the barman's attention. Looking around the tavern's main room, Arek said, "You would think I had the plague. I know witchers are unpopular, but …"

"Best ye gets aught ye needs, witcher, and leaves. Blaviken don't like yer type here. Not since the Butcher was here, we don't." The barkeep gave him a sullen glance, "an' we don't want one of ye about, let on two. The pair o' ye should hei off and go."

"Hmm. Another witcher you say? Do you know where I can find him? And would it trouble you terribly to provide me with some ale and a meal? I only want to replenish my supplies and I'll be on my way."

The sullen man nodded toward a back room and went back to polishing a mug, muttering that ale and food would be forthcoming but not to press his luck for more than that. Arek ambled to the back of the tavern and entered the private parlor that had been indicated. Inside the room, he found the witcher with his two swords slung across his back sitting before a cold hearth and drinking his ale.

The other witcher spoke. "They don't like us here much. Can't say I blame them. The White Wolf created quite the stir here more than a decade ago and the people still remember it. Have a seat and a pint." The man indicated a chair settled at the small table that dominated the far half of the room.

Arek laughed and exclaimed, "Well, I'll be damned in a hole. Vesemir? Is that you?"

The old man looked up and his craggy face crinkled in a broad grin. He looked like he was settling down into his fifties, but he wasn't any more human than Arek was. And he was older than the dark haired witcher by decades, maybe even centuries.

"Arek!" Vesemir stood and clasped hands with the younger man, his wolf's head medallion swinging on his breast. "Has the Path been good to you, boy?"

"It's been. Left a few marks on my hide and fewer coins in my pouch. But isn't that the way of it?"

"It is, it is indeed." Nodded the old witcher. "What brings you so far north? Last time I saw you it was way south of Nazaire. Some alghoul contract if I remember right."

"Yeah, you remember right." The Manticore grimaced. "Left a nasty bite mark on my calf that still itches to this day. You, if I recall, were headed to Bellhaven, escorting some noble's daughter. Danska whatsername."

"Ahh yes, the fair Danska. Kept wanting to show me her gratitude for the escort through the mountains." Vesemir scratched the back of his head, embarrassed at the memory. "I needed a chaperone the whole trip or she would have had me compromised and a crossbow bolt in my gut!" They laughed together at the thought.

"So, old man, what brings you Blaviken? Following a contract or just taking in the sights?"

"No, had a contract that led me here. Finished it and now headed east to Kaer Morhen. Need to set up for the winter, hide our traces." The old Wolf took a heavy breath, adding quietly, "Things are bad in the north and I want to keep the trouble away from home."

Arek grunted at that. "At least you still have one."

"You the last, Arek? Been a long, long time since I saw another Manticore. You know, you are welcome to winter with us Wolves. Could use the company." A chuckled followed the thought that flowed across the old witcher's face. "Lambert, he's a young pup, could use someone to bash some sense into his head."

"Might take you up on that. In fact, I had been intending to go there in the fall before the snow flies." His face was grave as he looked at the Wolf. "Actually, I have something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Hm. Bad times. Bad times indeed. The wild hunt, wars, pestilence and famine. What other bad news do you bring?"

"I encountered witch hunters in Toderas. Apparently, they are on a quest to dig up the secrets to making witchers; to actually make them for their cult." The Manticore's eyes cut to Vesemir's. "The Hierarch himself has set them on this path."

The old man's head came up sharply and his brows crashed over his eyes. "Damn. Kaer Morhen was attacked two years ago by a group known as Salamandra. We couldn't stop them from taking our mutagens and I've always had the worry in the back of my mind that it was more than ambitious magic users behind it. This … this is very concerning."

Arek nodded and stared into the empty grate, swirling ale in his tankard. "I found a woman along the way, she was with me in Toderas, claims to have knowledge on how to make witchers. Not sure what to think about it, but she knows certain details. And then there's an old book. It's not written in any language I've ever studied - and I've learned a few along the way, but she can read it, I have no doubt of that."

"Bring her too. Not in any position to waste any resources." The old Wolf scowled at the cold hearth. "There are so few of us left, and some of the ones who are have turned mercenary. They have no hope, you know? No new witchers being made, no one to train, fewer monsters too. What is there to contend for if we're dying? No one to pass on our ways to." Vesemir shook his head sadly. Arek agreed with a nod.

A tavern wench knocked, interrupting the men with two trenchers of stew and fresh ale. The witchers ate and drank, then prepared to leave.

"I wouldn't hang around here. Come to Kaer Morhen for the winter." Vesemir restated the offer. "I'll introduce you to the reason why they hate us in Blaviken more than most common folk do," the old witcher chortled.

They rode out together. At a fair distance from the town, Vesemir said, "I'm headed to Ghelibol and then to Ard Carraigh before I set out for the keep. Where are you going, and when do you think you'll come?"

"Roggeven, then on to Oxenfurt and Rinbe. Then I'll swing back up through Ban Glean and take the inland route to Lan Exiter. I'll convince Micah to come with to your keep." Arek chuckled as he thought of his mate. "Maybe another six or eight weeks. That would put us there in August sometime."

The Wolf and the Manticore parted ways with clasped hands and injunctions to be careful on the path.


	13. Hunting Season

_**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**_

 _ **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**_

 _ **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**_

* * *

 _May 24th, 1273_

 _My dearest Arek,_

 _I hope this letter finds you safe and well on your path, that you have prospered in your search for artifacts for Dennas' research and that you have steered well clear of witch hunters. I wish I could say the same for myself here, but I cannot. In fact, I have had to leave Lan Exiter and am now making my way to the place we discussed when last we were together. I found a very old map that detailed the path to take to that place and hope I may be able to follow it without incident._

 _Everything was going well and I was able to fully read the resource you know of. I will tell you in person my conclusions and what I believe our next step should be as I do not feel safe detailing that in a letter that might be intercepted._

 _When you left Lan Exiter at the beginning of May, I set about translating writings and doing research that paralleled our specific interests. I uncovered a bit here, a bit there, and things were quite peaceful for the next two weeks. I had, I will let you know, been practicing those skills you had shown me during our time at sea. I had actually been able to heat considerably more than a tea pot!_

 _It's a good thing, too, because, as I said, the witch hunters arrived. They managed to identify me when they came to harass Dennas and his research team for information on witchers. I recognized two that we had encountered previously and somehow they recognized me - though how they could have done so I will never know, I wasn't in their company as you had been. At any rate, those skills did come in handy when they apprehended me on the way home from my office late one evening. They never expected a woman to react like I did, and their surprise allowed me to escape them and go into hiding._

 _Luckily, I have been in the habit of keeping my research notes in a safe place as the hunters torched Dennas's house after interrogating him fiercely about the two of us._

 _I feel so terrible for bringing this down upon my friend, but fortune smiled on him, and Dennas is in the good care of a physician of King Thyssen's court – no doubt due to the King funding his research at the University._

 _I personally managed to slip out of town and become invisible amongst the lower classes and bands of refugees._

 _I must implore you not to come to Kovir. The Church of The Eternal Flame is sending priests and hunters in greater numbers and they ARE looking for you, my dearest witcher. It would be entirely best if you make haste to that place we discussed._

 _Hmm. How to signal you as to the passage of my route? Remember what you told me about your horse, about her name? I will leave a symbol to represent that on notice boards along my path, in some form or another. More than that I will not say, for if this correspondence falls into the wrong hands, I would be revealing myself to our enemies._

 _I will leave this, folded and sealed with wax, at the Temple of Lebioda in Talgar and addressed to where we discussed. I pray you receive it in good time._

 _Yours ever and always,_

 _M._

* * *

Arek was standing outside an alehouse in Hengfors with the letter in his hand, perusing the notice board in front of him. The seal had been intact and he felt unaccountably giddy at that even while his gut cramped with concern for Micah. All he knew at this point was she had made it to Talgar and that had been nearly eight weeks ago. He looked at the noticeboard again, looking for any symbol that she had come through on her way to the mountains, but there was nothing that indicated Saki in any way. He would have to go north and track her that way. The witcher hid his anxiety in preparing his supplies and mount. He had no active contracts to distract him now so he planned to move fast. He kept his head down and avoided the hunters he saw in town.

Two days later, he finally found sign of her in Caingorn, on a little patch of dirt claimed by a farming community as it's community meeting place. There in a corner of their tattered noticeboard, was a picture of a steaming pot and a cup. He laughed outloud at her ingenuity. Even if the witch hunters had intercepted her letter, they would never have figured out her signal to him.

He traced her path along the feet of the Dragon Mountains, always going east. He talked to peasants along the pass through the Kestrel Mountains toward Aedd Gynvael, learning that she had helped a woman in childbirth, patched the cut forelock of a farmer's only mule and stitched the chin of a naughty child who shouldn't have been jumping out of a tree. Ten days after he had gotten her missive, he stood at one of Aedd Gynvael's notice boards, searching for her sign. This was the last one left to check, but there was nothing. His frustration mounted when he could find no more information of her when he questioned the peasantry. Arek finally took a room at an inn near the western gate, sulking over an ale and picking at his food while he watched people come and go through the wide front door. The Innkeeper had not seen anyone of that description. None of the patrons had either. Arek buried his head in a hand and propped it up on the table.

"Eh, master witcher," hissed a sibilant whisper from his right side. "Nay, don't turn. Best you not acknowledge me. Just listen up. I know who it is you seek and I have information. Meet me after midnight on the carter's road heading east toward the Blue mountains. There's an abandoned farm a few miles on from the gates here. I'm going to leave. You don't pay any attention. Got it?"

Arek nodded imperceptibly to signal his understanding and the owner of the whisper move away behind him. The witcher noticed he was turning a dinner roll into bread crumbs in his fist and instead devoted his whole attention to his meal. He calculated the time it would take him to reach the farmhouse and snatched a few hours of sleep before leaving the inn.

As abandoned farmhouses went, this one was quite below average. The roof was gone, and at some point the entire back end of the hut had collapsed. There was a great oak tree across from the front door and the witcher parked himself in its shadow a full hour before midnight. He set himself to meditate, keeping an ear open for anyone trying to sneak up on him. His vigilance paid off when a lone rider came trotting into the yard. Arek's steel sword was in his hand and he was on his feet before the horse had stopped moving. He peered around the trunk of the tree in time to see a figure slide out of the saddle and walk toward his hiding place.

"Halt," the big man growled from the shadows, watching as the figure jumped, letting out a startled and very feminine squeak. Arek swore and stepped away from the tree.

"A...Arek of Malleore?" The woman's voice faltered as she asked his name.

"Who wants to know?" He was still growling, which made the chit even more nervous.

"My name is Lucy. I… I have a letter for you." She held the note out to him, shaking like a leaf. He took it from her just as his ears pricked up to the sound of another horseman approaching. Faster than the eye could flick, he had her pinned against his chest with his sword against her throat and dragged back into the shadows of the tree.

"There better be no trickery here." His voice was low and very dangerous, and the poor girl he held captive was trembling so hard she couldn't stand.

"Lucy? Luce?" asked the young swain who had ridden up to the farm.

Arek stepped out once more with his captive and watched the young man, for he was very young indeed, swallow in fear.

"S..s...sir, please let her go. We have nothing. Just meeting 'neath the tree," the boy said.

"Please," pleaded the girl, "He's come to escort me home. The hunters will bother me trying to get into the city alone, or if they find me here. But with my beau, they will ignore me. Please." Her voice was almost a sob.

Arek let her go and re-sheathed his sword. "Talk, quickly. What do you know?"

"Only that she's on her way to the place you will know, that she's safe. It's all there in the letter."

The witcher opened the letter then, noting that the wax seal was intact on this one as well.

* * *

 _July 26th 1273_

 _Dearest Arek_

 _I made it to Aedd Gynvael two days ago. The further into Kaedwen I go, the denser becomes the presence of the EFC. I feel like a mouse at a cat convention. Luckily, I have met a Wolf who has agreed to take me to his den. I am sure you will know what I mean. It took no small amount of persuasion, but being able to heat more than a teapot did come in handy. I will tell you more when we are reunited._

 _Your M._

* * *

"Focus, Micah. Make the symbol and release it on the exhale. Use your breath to push it out." The man was tall and well built, standing behind her and helping her put her fingers in the right configuration as Arek strode into the practice yard behind them from the stables. An unexpected surge of jealousy roared through him and he struggled to contain it as he watched his woman being tutored by an unknown witcher. Her Aard knocked the fencing dummy over at 30 paces and the other man clapped her on the shoulder in congratulations. He turned and Arek saw the horrid and disfiguring scar that split the right side of his face from hairline to chin. He was lucky to have use of his eye.

She looked up then and saw him. "AREK!" she cried as she hurtled into him, leaping into his arms. "Thank God you're here! You have no idea how worried I've been for you!"

He crushed her to him and stared into her face, his eyes dropping to her mouth just before he kissed her soundly, laying claim in front of the other male and reveling in her earnest response. When he broke off the kiss, he noticed with some satisfaction that her gaze was unfocused and she had a rather endearing, if goofy, expression on her face. Had he looked at the other witcher, he would have seen a good-natured grin, but he wasn't looking anywhere but at her.

"Welcome to Kaer Morhen. Vesemir said to expect you. I'm Eskel." The other witcher introduced himself, holding out his hand and waiting for Arek to clasp it. The big witcher hesitated for a heartbeat then grasped the proffered hand.

"Where is the old man?" Arek asked, looking Eskel in the eye, noting that the other man didn't flinch or look away.

"He's getting Triss, one of the sorceresses, settled. Micah can show you the Library, which is close to her room." Eskel flashed a brief smile at the girl in the big man's arms, "I'll see you later. Keep working on those signs. You have a knack for it." He nodded, then strode away.

"Ok," he growled, "so what's going on?"

"It's a long story, and Vesemir said to wait till everyone has arrived so I don't have to tell it more than once. I guess there are at least two more witchers that should be here in the next week or so. I met Eskel in Aed Gynvael and he brought me here. Very lucky, too. He saved me from the witch hunters. You did get my letter, right?"

"Yes, both of them. So, how'd you convince Eskel to bring you to the wolf den?" he asked, his tone coming out a little sharper than he liked.

She gave him a startled glance. "Well, when he was saving my hide from the hunters, I igni'd one right in the face, which surprised the witcher, of course. After the fight, he asked me about it." She played with Arek's medallion where it lay on his breast. "When I spied his Wolf medallion, I knew he belonged here and I begged, shamelessly, after showing him my Manticore pendant and demonstrating quen and aard to his satisfaction. He said I had obviously been tutored by a witcher and agreed to bring me along."

"I'll have to thank him." said Arek. He looked down at her and captured her face in his large hand, then kissed her again slowly, and murmured against her lips, "I've missed you."

* * *

They went into the keep and ascended the rotting stairs toward the library. The castle had long since passed its heyday and the pall of decay was upon its craggy walls. Vesemir and Eskel tried valiantly to keep it away, but without an engaged populace to dress stone and pull weeds, it was falling slowly back into the earth. Kaer Morhen was nearly uninhabitable, though the witchers were loath to give her up. At least it was dry in the rooms, if horridly drafty, and there were plenty of furs to snuggle under on a frigid morning.

Micah had been lucky enough to find clothing in one of the storage rooms, uncovering leather pants, jerkins, boots, and linen shirts that fit her well enough. She had been desperate for clothes since her precipitous flight from Lan Exiter had left her with only her precious rucksack and the clothes on her back.

Arek had noticed how well the leather britches fit as he followed her up the stairs, recognizing the garb of young witcher boys in training. He was very much taken with the sway of her hips and the rounded mound of her bottom. In fact, he wondered at the cruelty of a world that didn't see fit to garb all women thusly. He must have sighed audibly when they came round the corner from the stairwell because she turned to face him with inquiry in her eyes.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing, nothing. Just enjoying the sights." He smirked.

Her look was confused, which he found adorable, and he tapped the end of her nose with his finger. "Lead the way, Micah, show me where this sorceress and Vesemir are."

They made their way toward a library wherein he could see Eskel deeply engrossed in some tome or another. Across from the library was another room and Vesemir was just emerging.

"AH Eskel told me that you had arrived. You had no problems along the way, I hope," said the old man, making way for a beautiful redhead to come into the hall. Arek's medallion hummed and he recognized the woman for a sorceress.

"I avoided agents of the Eternal Flame and my trip through the mountains was relatively uneventful."

"You're lucky you didn't have more trouble in Kaedwen," said the redhead, "Radovid has given the Church full reign to persecute magic users, mutants and non-humans. The pogroms are getting out of control."

"Triss was telling us last night about the flight of the mages and sorceresses from Novigrad. It was a very close thing." Said Micah. "There were hunters everywhere on the roads between Kovir and Aen Gevael. Not many days outside of Lan Exiter I watched them thrash an elderly woman who had too many herbs in her basket for their liking. I had to stitch her face back together after they had finished their fun and moved on." She spat in disgust.

"People will always persecute other people," intoned Vesemir, with a sorrowful shake of his head, "Someone is always too different to tolerate." The assembled party all nodded in agreement.

The old man continued, "I expect Lambert back any day and Geralt should be here by the end of the week. Then we'll sit down and have a meeting. According to Triss, here, there are weighty matters to consider, and I know Micah has her own concerns that must be addressed. I want everyone together when we do that."

The old witcher took his leave then and stumped off toward the kitchen, murmuring about organizing a hunt to stock the larder now that they had so many guests. Triss watched him go, her face softened in fondness for the scion of the wolf school. She looked up then, making eye contact with Micah, a considering gleam in her eye.

"So this is Arek?" She stuck her hand out to him and beamed a smile, "I'm Triss Merigold."

"Triss, nice to meet you." Arek purred at his most charming, taking the proffered limb and placing a gentle kiss on the sorceress's knuckles. He then raised an eyebrow at a stifled snort from Micah's direction.

"Hah, just wait till he meets Yennifer," laughed Triss.

"I almost shudder in anticipation!" The other woman chortled back.

Arek looked between the two women and asked, "Am I missing something"

"Oh no," Micah responded. "You just proved the theory of the Y chromosome." and then she giggled at the look on his face. "You owe me an oren, Triss. Come on, Arek, let's get you settled. Vesemir told me that in ages past up to sixty witchers could be accommodated here. Some of the rooms have fallen into ruin, but there are several near where Vesemir and Eskel sleep that are in good shape." With a wave to the sorceress, she pulled him along to another area of the castle one floor below the Library.

Arek chose a room and the two busied themselves making it habitable. "Where are you sleeping?" he asked her as she finished tucking in sheets and blankets on the narrow cot.

"I was staying in the Library wing, in a room next to Triss'. At least that's where I am officially staying - but it's warmer in the kitchen near the fire and I've been curling up there instead. Triss can make her own fire. All I can do is play blowtorch. It takes a lot of stamina to maintain igni and it's not efficient if you don't have wood to burn. You know, I got pretty decent at it on the road here."

"You'll have to show me your progress. I noticed you were pretty friendly with Eskel in the practice yard." Arek leaned up against the door, cutting off her escape route and regarded her with hooded, intense eyes.

She shrugged. "He's a nice man and helped me out. Why, are you jealous?" she asked, her brown eyes regarding him with humor and warmth, a smile twitching about her lips.

"Maybe. A little." He laughed.

"Arek …" She paused and looked at an old trophy hanging from a thick nail on the wall. It had horns and sharp, pointy teeth, and that is all she could deduce from it. She smiled wickedly at him, tugging her bottom lip with her teeth, "Eskel is a good man, very sweet. He is a friend and that is all. I have quite enough on my plate trying to deal with you."

Arek reached for her hand and tugged her against him, trapping her in his arms. "You're saying I'm a plateful, huh?" He plunged a hand into her hair, loosening the braid she had plaited it into that morning and holding her head steady. "The question is, are you ready to take a bite?"

He wasn't content this time with a few kisses. He pulled her against his erection and plundered her mouth, teasing her tongue to dance with his as she rubbed against him eagerly. The witcher's strong hands began to roam her body then, loosening her clothing as she worked on his. She hadn't realized they had even moved until the back of her knees buckled at the edge of the bed and he followed her down onto the straw tick and loomed above her, taking up all the air in the room. Oh, who needed to breath? It was so overrated!

* * *

They lay spent in the aftermath of their lovemaking. He was stroking her hip as he fought sleep, wanting to see her, gauge her reaction. His head was cushioned on her breasts, and he could hear the steady throb of her heart. Her scent wrapped around him, entangling him even as her fingers wove into the fine strands of hair at his scalp.

"I've missed you." His sleepy voice rumbled into her chest as he kissed one perky nipple.

"I missed you too." She shifted under him and he rolled on his back, pulling her atop his chest, delighting in the cascade of her hair around him. She traced his scars lightly with her hand, following the touches closely with kisses. He had so many and there were a few new ones since she had nursed him in the spring. She didn't find them disfiguring. They added to his warrior beauty. She snuggled into his embrace, breathing deep of his male scent. Suddenly her head came up and he cracked an eye at the delicate blush staining her cheeks.

"Hmm." She hummed.

Regarding her sleepily, he stroked her back. "What?"

"We were … loud." she buried her head in his chest on a giggle.

He chuckled and spooned her against him as he rolled to the side. She had been gloriously loud when she cried his name in the heat of passion and he smiled smugly in purely male satisfaction.

"Who cares." He murmured. "Not like they could hear us beyond this wing." His lips nibbled in her hair, as one hand cupped around her breast. "You'll just have scream quieter when everyone's up here trying to sleep."

She elbowed him in the ribs and gurgled with laughter. "You were yelling just as loud." She accused.

"The difference is, love, I don't care if they hear me." His laughter was wicked in her ear as they burrowed into the blankets and made love until they fell into a pleasantly exhausted sleep.

* * *

She awoke before he did, slipping out of bed and quietly throwing on her clothing. She needed a bath desperately. Arek snored quietly, face relaxed in slumber. She had known when he was truly asleep on the road when he snored. With boots in hand, she tiptoed out of his room. Micah had just closed the door when she bumped into a masculine chest with a yip of surprise.

"Who the bloody hell are you and what were you doing in my room!" growled a voice from somewhere over her head and she swallowed her screech so it came out an indeterminate squeak. Retreating till her back was plastered to the door, she jumped when igni flared suddenly and ignited the torch stuck in the wall right next to her.

"I asked you a fucking question," blared a lean, dark haired man, getting right up in her face. He sneered at her, his witcher's eyes narrowed and snapping with ill humor, "Who are you and what the fuck-all were you doing in my room?"

It really was just a reflex action, she didn't mean to throw so much into it. The aard flew from her fingers as she exhaled and shoved the man off his feet, onto his back against the far wall, where he slid to the floor. The door jerked open behind her and she fell into Arek who, she absently noted, was wearing only a sheet wrapped low on his hips. Her face flamed and she groaned inwardly.

"Who the fuck are you?" growled Arek, his voice deadly quiet, pulling her into the room behind him and staring down the younger witcher's sneer with an ugly one of his own.

"Lambert," barked Vesemir in warning, coming through the hallway, "mind your manners. These are our guests." The old witcher glared and the prone witcher regained his feet, adopting a stance of aloof disdain. Vesemir turned to Micah, and in a gentler tone said, "Go, child, and tell Triss that supper is ready in the hall. These boys and I will be down to join you directly. Tell Eskel too, he's buried in his books."

She darted under Arek's arm into the hallway and nodded to the elder in gratitude as she fled.

"Now. Lambert, this is Arek of Malleore and the girl is Micah Von Winslow. They are here on my invitation. There's plenty of rooms. Choose a different one. I'm sure they'll let you have that fiend trophy if you ask nicely. Arek, THIS is Lambert." The codger grinned conspiratorially.

"Another sorceress?" Scoffed Lambert, watching the girl turn the corner, his mouth turning down in bitter distaste.

"No, actually," said Arek. "She's a healer and a damn good one." He also had watched her retreat, cursing to himself that he hadn't woken immediately when she left his bed. He was going to have to work on that.

"Fuck me!" said the younger witcher, a look of surprised consideration crawling across his features. "She dumped me on my ass. Did not expect that." He rubbed his chin in thought, then cut his eyes to the big witcher clothed only in a sheet. "You teach her that? Most normal humans can't do much of anything with signs when they are even interested in learning about them."

"Yeah. She picked it up right quick. She was able to draw power like a witcher from the standing stone behind the Temple in Novigrad, too," said Arek softly.

The other two witchers looked at him in surprise. Vesemir thought he would have to question Micah much more closely than he originally intended. The old man nodded and turned to head down to the kitchen area and said over his shoulder, "Most people don't have an aptitude because they are afraid to try anything, and signs take a toll on a body's strength. I heard that aard." He stopped, tilting his head in thought. "It wasn't soft or weak and she walked away afterward, too. By all logic, she should be in an unconscious heap on the floor." With that the old man resumed his course and left the two younger men staring at each other.

"No hard feelings?" Asked Lambert. " Kind of takes a man by surprise to find a stranger skulking around in his bedroom. Too damn many witch hunters out there. Makes my sword hand itchy," Lambert grumbled.

"No hard feelings, but apologize to her. You're damn lucky she cast aard and not igni." Arek closed the door on Lambert's guffaws as he dressed for dinner.


	14. Epiphany

_**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**_

 _ **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**_

 _ **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**_

* * *

Lambert and Arek weren't the only new arrivals that day. As Micah came into the dining hall, she heard a loud whooshing roar that reminded her of the rift that had sucked her out of her own world and deposited her in this one. Then she saw it, glowing black and purple and blue, it erupted right in the dining hall, making candles flicker and blowing papers off the table.

"Aaaaand that would be Yen," said Triss coming up behind her.

"Fuck me sideways. What the hell is SHE doing here?" Lambert muttered at her other side as the raven tressed woman regally strolled out of the portal.

Micah's brows came down over her eyes in irritation and she hissed at him, "Would you kiss your contractee's mothers with that mouth?"

The young witcher grinned evilly and said, "I'll kiss you with it doll face, whadaya say?"

"I say I should have cast igni instead of aard." She gave him a droll look and walked away with her back straight, taking shelter beside her Manticore as Lambert chuckled softly.

Triss looked on in interest and said, "Not much hope for you with her, Lambert. Pretty sure she's got eyes only for Arek." The lean Wolf just shrugged and grinned.

"Mmmm, Lambert." Purred the beautiful, ebon locked sorceress in an obsidian gown that matched her hair. She had adroitly glided to them with an enigmatic smile, "Be a good boy and fetch me a cup of wine, please."

Triss made eye contact with him and shook her head ever so slightly, warning Lambert to keep his mouth shut. Yennefer of Vengerberg was known to have a fiery temper and this was not a good time or place to stir it up. The witcher balled up a fist and stalked off.

"Well, Triss," said the other sorceress tightly, "You look quite cozy here. But then, you've never been a stranger to Kaer Morhen, have you."

"These witchers have been my friends for many years, Yen. I'm here because I told Geralt I would help him, help Ciri with the Wild Hunt."

"Mmhmm." The ebon sorceress hummed to herself, then murmured in a deceptively soft voice."Just so you know you don't need to help yourself to Geralt's bed, any more, my dear friend." Yennefer's voice was cultured, moderated and full of venomous warning that was not lost on the flame haired woman. The message was as unambiguous as it could be. Their longstanding rivalry concerning the famed White Wolf was over.

"Yen," Triss sighed. "you don't need to cut up nasty to me. He … he told me in Novigrad. The only reason we had anything at all is because he couldn't remember you. I'm moving on with my life and you have no reason to sharpen your claws at my expense."

"Well then, It's good we've had this little chat." Yennefer's Cheshire smile hid fangs. "Good friends shouldn't ever fight over a man, after all. It's not like they aren't scattered about the ground like mayapples." The dark-haired sorceress looked about at the current male population of the castle, noticing the big witcher next to a mousy woman. Nodding at the unlikely couple, Yennefer tapped her chin. "So, tell me who these new additions to our merry band are."

Triss pushed a strand of hair back from her face, looking idly where Yennefer was staring. "The dark haired witcher with white streaking his temples and beard is Arek of Malleore, a witcher of the Manticore school. He's a friend of Vesemir's. His companion is a healer from down near Vizima. Her name is Micah Van Waller. That's all I really know about either of them. She showed up with Eskel two days ago and he rode into Kaer Morhen this morning. I only got here last night."

Growing bored, Yennefer turned back to the redheaded woman. "To answer your unspoken question, Triss. Geralt is riding, making his way here from an audience with the Emperor in Vizima. He is bringing …. A surprising individual with him and we will have a mystery to untangle when he arrives. They should be here within the next week." Yennefer let out a long-suffering sigh. "If I know Geralt, he won't stop for anything and will push himself too hard. At least his mare, Roach, has some sense." Yennefer tossed her head regally, then said, "Introduce me to this new witcher and his mousy little shadow."

Triss did the honors as Eskel and Lambert joined the group. Yennefer found it amusing that the two witchers felt it necessary to protect the mouse from her while Arek stood at the girl's back gripping her shoulders. Did they think she was going to scratch the mouse's eyes out? True, this new witcher was every bit as fascinating as her own, but he was no Geralt of Rivia, so she kept her comments mostly polite.

Micah had taken an immediate dislike to the showy woman as soon as she had seen her glance contemptuously her way. She didn't really know much about sorceresses or using magic at all, it wasn't her thing. But she had heard that those who practiced the arcane were very often not at all what they seemed to be. They used magic and potions to give themselves the appearance of eternal youth and they were never, ever ugly, or even less than ravishing, if they had any say in the matter. Yennefer reminded the little doctor of nothing so much as the cheer captain when she had been in high school. That girl had been positively malignant in her jealousy toward anyone who dared to even look at her football captain boyfriend, or indeed any of the boys on the football team, whom she considered her rightful court. Micah found herself wishing she was in something other than leathers and braids, then viciously tamped down on that impulse. She was an adult and had no need to be ashamed of her accomplishments or her life. Arek wouldn't be alive if not for her healing skills, and it was due to her research that witchers existed in the first place. She straightened up and looked the sorceress in the eyes as she greeted the woman. Vesemir called the boys away to help him put on dinner as the women talked.

"So, what is it you do, Miss Van Waller?" Purred Yennefer when the witchers were busy in the kitchen. Her tone was deceptively civil.

"I have a doctorate in medicine from Oxenfurt University. I've spent the last several years of my life helping the people of Velen survive the wars. And you?" Micah kept her face pleasantly bland and swirled the wine in her cup. She decided now was not the time to trumpet her doctorates in Genetics and Biochemistry, her groundbreaking research into chimeras and chromosomal exchange using bone marrow stem cells, the seventy-two published and independently validated research papers she had authored or co-authored that had led to the government tapping HER as a required talent in their think tank. It was definitely not the time to boast about her processes that successfully created mutations which enhanced the natural attributes of the organisms they were applied to. Oh, but she wanted to. She wanted to smear all that in the face of this too beautiful woman who was striving to make her feel small and unimportant.

With effort, Micah got hold of herself and gave Yennefer a genuine smile as the woman replied coolly, "Nothing you would understand, I am sure. The vagaries of Magic, you know."

"Of course. Here's to vagaries," toasted Micah, and the three women drank.

The men came out with a platter of roasted boar and root vegetables. Eskel made a jape that at least it had been Vesemir cooking tonight and not Lambert, or they would all have starved. They sat around the table discussing the world outside the walls of Kaer Morhen, listening to stories of hunts and the acquisition of trophies and new scars. Micah caught both Triss and Yennefer rolling their eyes and had to laugh to herself. It didn't matter where they were, men were men. They never changed in their need for accolades and the approbation of their peers.

Triss indicated the girls should leave the boys to their chest thumping and retire to the evening hall. She wanted to get Micah away on her own anyway, the girl seemed different, but she couldn't get her hands around what it was. The three left as Eskel launched into a story about a fiend and being covered in what smelled like the urine of a female fiend in heat. The uproarious laughter of the men and their very ribald comments floated up the stairs after the women.

"Ugh!" Triss laughed as Yennefer made a rollicking fire appear in the empty grate.

"That was a good idea, Triss." Said Yennefer on a husky laugh. "Get us out of there before they got into full swing about their battle stories."

"Indeed. Men in general, and witchers in particular, like to relive their hunts," said Triss.

Micah sat quietly and listened as the two sorceresses caught up, discussing the flight of the Novigradi mages to Kovir, and what Geralt and Yennefer had uncovered in Skellige. They talked about Ciri, the child surprise, and wondered where she could possibly be and if the wild hunt had caught up to her. They discussed the Church of the Eternal Fire, how Menge was dead, but with the caliber of people in the Church's police arm, there would soon be someone even worse. They spoke of the severe persecution that was sure to arise against non-humans and both grew quiet as they thought of friends who still dwelt in the city.

"What do you think of all this, Micah?" asked Triss.

"What do I think? Hmm." The small woman thought back over world history. The history of her own world. Wars, pogroms, movements, purges … nothing ever changed.

"I think people suck. That's what I think. You could remove all the mages, herbalists, healers, charlatans, dwarves, elves, what have you, and it wouldn't change. There are some people, who, when they get into power, go to great lengths to consolidate that power and to name their boogiemen." Her eyes were bitter as she remembered the boogiemen she had been creating augmented humans to combat. "Those who are subjected to their rule don't think to brightly on the real cause of their misery and go right along with what they are told. There is always going to be a Caleb Menge, or a King Radovid. Men like the Emperor of Nilfgaard will always rise up and they will sweep aside places like Velen and Temeria and Cintra like gnats in their quest to rule. Until the people themselves rise up and demand better, embrace knowledge, put away their hidebound traditions that keep them living in the filth of their own sewage, nothing will change."

Triss raised her cup, saying "Here, here."

Yennefer looked at the mousy girl again and saw that, maybe, she wasn't quite as insignificant a person as she had first thought. She, too, raised her cup in toast.

The three days that followed were filled with the witchers working out in the practice yard in the mornings, admired by Micah and the two sorceresses. They especially enjoyed it when the men doffed their shirts to work out.

Arek drilled her on the signs, impressed that her igni had improved so much. She struggled with axii and was finally able to get a mouse to stay completely still and sit on her hand, though yrden just wouldn't come. Vesemir encouraged her to keep trying. He had seen many a young witcher struggle just as she did. Both of the older witchers had questioned her closely about how she felt when the power drew through her body and expressed itself in the sign. It tired her, of course, but it seemed to her that the more she practiced, the longer she could hold them and the more powerfully she could express them. This, too, was consistent with young witchers, though they had always gone through the trial of the grasses before they learned signs.

Yennefer and Triss took her aside and tried working with her on real magic, but it really was beyond her. She had no sense of gathering power from the environment. It all came from her own strength, or from the standing stone in the basement of the keep. She could sense nothing in the various places around the castle that the two claimed to be sources for the power. The sorceresses were baffled at how she could manage signs. They cast spells to see if she detected as magic, they used charms, they even had her drinking potions that would allow them to detect latent talent. But there wasn't even the slightest dribble of power from the girl. They were completely stumped.

"Can they do it?" asked Micah on the third day, "Can the witchers do more than cast signs?"

Triss and Yennefer looked at each other, then Yen spoke. "I once tried to teach Geralt to form an actual fireball. Theoretically, he should have been able to. It's just a stronger form of Igni after all. But he was never able to do it, even though he emanates strongly. I always just thought he didn't WANT to do it."

"What if," said Micah suddenly, "what if the ability to channel this power - being adept - what if it's genetic, intrinsic instead of extrinsic? And what if being receptive to the mutations is part of the same gene, but expressed differently, and the two traits cannot be co-expressed in the same individual. Some sort of split dominance, or a double recessive trait. So, you either have the ability to become Adept or … or you would be receptive to mutations. Able to make signs- but not having the full expression of the gene so you couldn't be a mage. Yet the partial expression makes you more receptive to the mutagenic adaptations." She tapped her lips with a forefinger. "It's a marker. A sign in the chromosomal road map. It might actually work." She started to pace with her hands clasped behind her back, her brow furrowing in thought. "Different expressions based on what form of the gene was inherited, but you didn't know how to check and see if someone actually had the gene, which expresses itself through less than thirty percent of the male population so your mortality rates were dismally high. And you never tried to use augments on females because the ones who HAD the gene almost always expressed the full function and were Adepts. Y linked recessive cross dominance in men, but X linked autosomal recessive in women. Women who did not express as adepts but had the gene were too few to successfully be found and mutated. What is the incidence? One in a hundred? A thousand? Quod Erat Demonstrandum no female witchers, ever! Expression for Adept-ability is far greater and found in more people than the expression that lends itself to the mutations. But it's not a common gene and it's not an uncomplicated one. Something so finely controlled as sensing quantum strings and which to pull would not be basic. Though it could well be elegantly simple."

She had lost herself in the possibilities, postulations coming quickly to the consternation of the two women who were struggling to keep up with the stream of thought. The witchers had abandoned their sword practice and gathered around to listen to her as well.

"Hm. Being able to track the genes means it should be possible to augment both sexes who had the correct copy and the right expression of the gene, or genes. It could be more than one. Breeding population right there. And the genes themselves tell us WHO is most likely to take the augs. How did I not see this before? I need a lab! And I need tissue samples! And I need a quantum physicist." She stood for a moment and looked up, gazing at the faces staring at her in sheer confusion.

"What the fuck is she talking about?" Lambert asked Arek.

"I really don't know. Still haven't figured it out." The big Manticore replied.

"She do that often? Talk to herself?"

"No, but I've heard those words before. Physicist, chromosome, quantum strings. Damned if I know what they mean," muttered Arek.

Micah turned away from them abruptly and stalked back to the castle, there was a book she had seen in the library and she wanted to check something in it before she lost her train of thought. And she needed to write it down!

Yennefer took a deep breath and said to Triss, "Well, she's quite a bit more than I made her out to be. The question is, just exactly what IS she?"


	15. Full Disclosure

_**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**_

 _ **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**_

 _ **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**_

* * *

When Arek cornered her in the library, he found her surrounded by a protective ring of books, notes and diagrams. Thought he was intent on questioning her about that display in the yard, she was still reluctant to elaborate. It was only through further goading, that he finally got her to tell him.

"The Church wants to try to make their own witchers. We know this. But what if I could do something that even the originators of your cast couldn't and create female witchers. Women that were viable to pair with a male witcher and generate progeny." Micah's voice rang with the thought. "While, YES, we must keep the knowledge out of their hands, is it wrong to want to use it ourselves? Witchers are about a lot more than just their mutations. You have an entire culture that is on the brink of extinction. The world will be a much more impoverished place once it lies dead. With children, you can perpetuate that knowledge, that training, that world view… without the need of painful trials."

"We're sterile, Micah." He said it as one who knows an ancient fact.

"No, unless the process that was used on you actually damaged your gonads, you aren't. What you lack is a female that is genetically compatible. All my augments - from the amoeba we started with to the grasshoppers, the mice, the rats, the bonobos - they retained their ability to sexually reproduce."

"Even if you could do that. Why bother at this point? There's fewer and fewer contracts as the years go by." Arek shrugged, crossing his arms across his chest. "People are integrating with the things they called monsters in the past. Employing trolls, putting endangered creatures in preserves. People don't want us any more, maybe it's time to let us die out."

"Without a proper lab, access to the required technology, it's a moot point anyway." She looked at the floor in defeat. "Still, you and the other witchers, you ARE special. I'm not so sure it's a good thing to deprive the world of your unique skills and abilities."

He approached her then and pulled her close. "You would be in a small minority who believes that, Micah. I would like to think you're just biased." He grinned at her, and she reached her hand up to stroke his face.

"I may be biased, but I don't think it makes me wrong."

He chuckled at her. "Come to bed and show me how biased you are, woman."

They left the library, turning into her room and shutting the door.

* * *

Micah avoided everyone until the morning a white haired witcher rode into the keep, holding a strange, childish bundle in the saddle before him. Eskel was out hunting a forktail that had been dive bombing the keep, supposedly on Yennefer's orders, Lambert was working on his still, Vesemir was patching sections of castle wall and Arek was up in the valley, hunting game. Yen and Triss worked on getting their magical laboratory set up, leaving the woman with the strange theories and stranger vocabulary at loose ends. She was on one of the parapets of the skirting wall practicing Yrden when Geralt of Rivia rode in. She watched the wizened old witcher greet the younger man in the manner of a father with his son, and then take the strange, wriggling package from the saddle as the two walked toward the keep.

Suddenly, there was a crash as a bed came flying out the window of the tower and landed in the upper courtyard. Micah saw Vesemir shake his head at the other witcher who only shrugged, and then the two of them headed for the interior, talking all the way. Micah followed along, her curiosity piqued concerning the shuffling thing whose hands the two witchers grasped.

"Ahh, child, there you are. I would like your opinion on this creature. What did you say he was called, Geralt?" Micah had caught up with them at the door to the old bastion.

"Uma," said the White Wolf.

"Uma! Umamumamumamamama," screeched the … person?

Micah came forward.

"Wolf, I would like you meet Micah Van Waller. She hails from Velen and is a very fine healer, or so I've been told. She and her companion, Arek of the Manticore school, are my guests." Geralt of Rivia nodded in her direction, his expression inscrutable. She nodded back at him, then shifted her gaze to Uma.

"Hmm." She crouched down and looked at him. "He looks like someone forced him into a bottle. Some things compressed and some things didn't. His head is too big for his body and his legs too short. His torso seems to be the right size for a tall, slender man, but look how hunched the spine is." She picked up Uma's hand and smiled at him. "What say you, Uma? Will you tell us your secrets?"

"Uma ummm umaumma." warbled the creature.

Geralt told them where he had encountered the unfortunate soul, for he believed it was a person who was trapped by a curse in the twisted body. If the curse could be lifted he would be able to find Ciri. This thing might even BE Ciri.

"Wolf, if you can go find Eskel and bring him back, and I'll send Lambert to fetch Arek, we can have that meeting I've been promising everyone. Then we can decide what we'll be doing. Micah, you can assist me with Uma here till everyone is back.

"I'm going to see Yen first, Vesemir." said Geralt, " You say Triss is here too?" the old man nodded. "Just as well and glad she came." He nodded at them both and strode off to the stairs for the north tower.

Arek and Lambert returned first, a big buck slung by it's hooves between them on a pole. They took it outside the kitchen, saving the skin to be stretched later on a frame. They spitted the body of the animal and got it roasting over the fire. Arek busied himself trying to teach Lambert the finer points of rotisserie as people began to congregate. Geralt and Eskel returned with forktail spinal fluid and a trophy, bantering as they entered the hall. Triss and Yennefer had descended as well and a fresh barrel of ale had been tapped. Everyone, even Uma, enjoyed a cup, though Vesemir had to hold it to Uma's distorted mouth.

Yennefer and Geralt started the initial discussions after dinner, talking of their investigation in Vellen, Novigrad and Skellige as they tracked Geralt's child surprise and then lost the trail. They knew the Wild Hunt was after the girl and she was in desperate danger. Geralt told about the mage that Ciri had been traveling with, about finding Dandelion and learning what she had done in the city, and about the Bloody Baron and the strange rout Uma had taken to end up in his keep in Velen. Yennefer interjected that she thought Uma must be someone who was cursed. He emanated very strongly, and all the witchers agreed since their medallions hummed on their breastbones when they were near him.

Then Triss brought up the persecution of magic users, alchemists and herbalists in Novigrad, how the Church of The Eternal Fire was starting to rage out of control, that no magic users were going to be safe in the north because of them soon. She spoke of how she and Geralt, with Dijkstra's help, had evacuated the survivors to Kovir, to be absorbed into Tancred Thyssen's court and into the University at Lan Exiter.

Micah and Arek took up the conversation from there, relaying what they had learned in Todoras, that the Church was seeking to unearth the secrets to making their own witchers. Pandemonium erupted as Geralt, Eskel and Lambert all tried to outshout each other. Vesemir silenced them with a judicious application of Aard, then nodded for Micah to proceed.

Micah took a deep breath, and continued. "From what Vesemir has told me, Kaer Morhen has already suffered an attack from parties interested in stealing witcher secrets. I do not think this is unrelated to what the Witch Hunters and the Eternal Fire are planning now. I spent a few weeks at Lan Exiter, doing research, and I believe I know where the witch hunters were going next." She nodded at Arek, who picked up a large sheet of paper that had been rolled into a tube and spread it over the cleared table.

"This map shows the approximate location of all six witcher schools that we know of," Arek spoke. "Bear, Serpent, Cat, Griffon, Manticore and Wolf, and one other location, which was their likely target before the snows fly." Pointing toward the Skellige islands, the Manticore continued. "The Bear died almost two hundred years ago, and no one knows where its main fortress was located."

"I haven't seen a Bear witcher in over a hundred years," muttered Vesemir, palming his chin in thought.

"I've only been able to dig up an approximate location in the Skellege Isles - within a radius of about three hundred miles, just to narrow it down." Micah's laugh was derisive. "According to notes from the old Wolven grandmasters, it was located on its own island and very hard to find without special location spells."

Arek shook his head. "They kept it very secret, yet they were the first to fall to a concentrated raid by Skellegers. Apparently, the raid happened in the winter and there were no survivors. There could be information concerning witcher mutations and the processes and techniques the Bears used. Information that we cannot allow to fall into the wrong hands."

"I remember meeting a bear school witcher, years ago. About the same time as Yen and I got together for the first time, I think." Geralt rasped, looking to the dark-haired sorceress.

Micah nodded, thinking. Perhaps they could put up a notice for old witchers. It might not be such a bad idea as their group here was woefully small to fight such well organized and large organization as the Eternal Fire Church. She put those thoughts on hold and continued the presentation.

"Here, to the south, in Nilfgaard is where the Serpents were. There is very little about them in the master's journals and it's possible that the vipers died out the around the same time as the manticores, which was sometime between fifty and eighty years ago." Micah crinkled her brow as she spoke, tapping a cove indicated on the map. "I believe the Vipers were on the coast, though well hidden. This is where I think it might be, and there is reason to believe its methodology is still intact within its ruins. It went defunct about the same time as Kaer Morhen was attacked and the witchers butchered."

"The Feline school was located in Nazaire and it has been razed, taken over by Nilfgaard forces after the members proved to be … unstable." Arek's words prompted sour comments from the other witchers. "This is a recent event, though getting there to discover if any of their secrets have been found could be problematic."

Micah added, "From what I've discovered about their methods and practices, the Fire adherents would be most attracted to this one. They're most likely to find what they're looking for here."

Geralt interjected once again. "I found some journals and papers from a mage while I was in Novigrad concerning the cat school. You can have what I brought with me." Micah beamed a bright smile at the white haired witcher.

"The Griffons were somewhere in the mountains of the Tir Trochar range, here, due east of Ghesso." The little woman pointed. "There is almost no information on them, or what happened to bring about their downfall."

"I haven't seen a Griffon witcher since leaving the Zerrikanian plains and that was decades ago." Arek took a deep breath and continued. "The Manticore school was located in Zerrikania. We were never a large school, as there wasn't a great demand for our services east of the Blue Mountains. We last performed the trial of the grasses over eighty years ago. With fewer and fewer people willing to hire us, we simply died out. As far as I know, I'm the last and I haven't been back in about thirty years, but everything was still intact then. I buried the labs along with instructional manuals and whatever mutagens remained to make it harder to access, but I didn't destroy it. Call it what you will, I … couldn't bring myself to do that. Now, I wish I had." He sounded regretful, and Micah squeezed his hand in sympathy..

"The war between Nilfgaard and the North is winding down," Micah said. "Everyone but Radovid knows it's over. The Church of the Eternal Fire has free pass even into Nilfgaard's territories now. We need to secure these resources and keep them out of the wrong hands."

Triss interjected. "The trial of the grasses requires magic to make it successful. The Church and the Witch Hunters are doing their best to exterminate them."

"That's something else I learned when I was in Lan Exiter and on the road here, actually, and I'm glad you brought it up, Triss." Micah paced the length of the table. "The hunters have a special stable of mages who have agreed to help in exchange for their lives. Now, I don't know about you, but the thought of that perverted organization having the means to make augmented human beings and then train them up to be more ruthless than the Cats, who will be answerable ONLY to the Hierarch, scares me to death." A fine shiver ran through her slim shoulders. "If you thought the purges and pogroms going on now are bad, imagine a Novigrad filled with mutated witch hunters." Triss' face went white and the others muttered. There were nods of agreement. Even Yennefer looked suitably concerned.

"Now." Micah said, seeking Arek's eyes as she did. "I suppose it's time to make confession to all of you. I've read many accounts of the witchers that have come through Kaer Morhen over the centuries, spoken to Vesemir, Eskel and Arek about their experiences with the trials of the grasses, the mutation procedures. To a man, it was horrible, ghastly and inhumane. And that's just for the survivors. The mortality was brutally high." She paced back to Arek, leaning into the hand that gripped her shoulder.

"I'm not from here. I mean, I'm not from this planet at all. I'm from a completely different world. It was our fault the conjunction of the spheres happened in the first place, due to our hubris. And it was my research for the government that has resulted in you and your caste. You could say I am the great grandmother many times removed of every witcher who has ever lived."

The silence was deafening. Then Lambert started to laugh at her. "Are you serious? It looks like you believe what you're saying, but that's insane."

Micah replied to the lean man. "Is it, Lambert? Do spectral beings show up in your skies and chase around your countryside looking for Geralt's promised child? Is that insane? I - oh how do I put this - fell through a rift when the machinery that caused the conjunction exploded, in the same facility that housed my lab." She chewed her lip and looked Lambert in the eye. "My research was on creating human augments for the army. Soldiers who could hear and see better, run faster, had more stamina and endurance and strength than mere mortals. Soldiers who would be very hard to kill because they were hardier, their bones thicker, their regenerative properties greater, their immunity unparalleled, and who would live far longer than normal human beings." The Wolves were growling amongst themselves now, their eyes piercing her with hardened, golden glares. "I was very, very close to starting human trials.

Eskel stood, a question in his eyes, his voice vibrating with intensity. "What are you saying? Witchers were created hundreds of years ago. You can't be any more than what? Twenty? Thirty at most."

Micah's laugh was ironic. "Somehow, I was shunted to Velen and twenty-five years ago I landed in the swamp. I've been here ever since. The rest of my lab and my colleagues, however, ended up in a place called The Valley of the Snow Hare …. Fifteen hundred years ago. And they partnered with mages and elves to create human augments. Witchers."

Yennefer added in a hushed tone, "She's telling the truth. I see it in her mind, she isn't making this up and she's not crazy."

Lambert had started to prowl the floor as she told her tale, his brows crashing in fury over his blazing eyes. Turning on her, he roared, surging toward the little geneticist with murderous intent. "Fucking shit! Fucking gods be damned horse shit! What the hell! Why?" He grabbed Micah's shoulders quicker than she could blink and shook her hard. Geralt and Eskel peeled him away before he could hurt her, and Arek swept her behind him, his fist cocked and ready to unload on the smaller man.

"Stop, PLEASE!" Her voice splintered with strain. She pushed at Arek, then at the two who were restraining Lambert. "He has a right to be angry. All of you do." She made purposeful eye contact with the entire hall. "You were put through horrid torture at no fault of your own and forced to take up a mantel you likely never would have if given the choice. Let him have his anger, and he can spill it all on me. It's ok." She looked into Lambert's seething face, her own filled with remorse. "It's ok."

The angry witcher shook off his friend's hands and stepped toward Micah again, very close and right in her face. Rage seethed off him in waves and he hissed down at her. "Don't ever fucking come near me. Don't ever look at me. Don't ever talk to me. You should leave. The sooner the better." Then he was gone, running out of the keep, the door crashing against the old stone wall.

Arek folded Micah in his arms protectively. "We'll be leaving to find this valley. From what Micah discovered, it's in these mountains and shouldn't be far. Maybe a week's journey at most." He nodded as if in agreement with an inner thought. " We'll be taking off in the morning. If there's anything there, it has to be removed or destroyed. We can't let anything fall into the hands of the witch hunters."

"You know you don't have to go," Vesemir said. "Lambert is hot headed, and he's yet to reconcile himself to the past. That boy has too much bitterness and anger to think this through."

"I don't know. I understand where he's coming from, can't really blame him." Murmured Eskel. "It's a lot to take in, looking at someone who was the author of my worst nightmares." He looked at Micah, then, and echoed what Arek has said to her so long ago in Toderas, "I'm not sure yet if I hate you. I need to think this through." Geralt agreed.

"Even if this is a big deal, we don't have time to contend with it right now," sighed Vesemir. "Ciri is our priority, and when we find her, there's sure to be a fight with the Hunt." The old man looked at Micah. "Child, we simply do not have the resources to tackle both right now."

"Not asking that at all, sir." The small woman replied. "Winter slows everyone down and it's right around the corner. Most of the schools are in places that get impassible once the snows set in, or they are inaccessible in other ways. After all this with your girl is finished, then it will be time to make other plans. We just felt it was necessary to inform you, let you know what's going on." The old man patted her shoulder and moved away.

Yennefer approached as everyone else wandered off, lost in their own thoughts. Only Arek stood with her. She felt exceptionally grateful for that. "I must ask your help, Micah." The ebon haired sorceress spoke softly. "I have an idea about how to cure Uma, and it involves certain procedures that stem from the trials."

Micah shrugged, stepping out of Arek's embrace. "I can tell you a great deal about genetics and how to manipulate the smallest factor of human inheritance. I can, with the right equipment, even do so with a very fine degree of control. But I know next to nothing about the actual trial of the grasses, Yennefer. And even less about how magic plays a part."

"Please, call me Yen." the other woman smiled, "I know you've been reading and researching extensively since you got here, and you spent time at the university in Kovir. Could you point me to anything at all that might help?"

Micah nodded. "Let's go up to the library, I'll show you what I've got." The two women moved off and Arek was left standing in the hall, watching them walk away.

Geralt came up to him and clapped him on the shoulder and held up a demijohn. "Care for a drink?" Arek accepted with a smirk and joined the remaining witchers to make plans for the upcoming journey.


	16. The Citadel

_**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**_

 _ **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**_

 _ **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**_

* * *

"This thing all things devours:

Birds, beasts, trees, flowers;

Gnaws iron, bites steel;

Grinds hard stones to meal;

Slays kings, ruins towns,

And beats high mountains down."

― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit

* * *

Vesemir, Eskel and Geralt strolled into the stables to see them off. The sorceresses were busy going over the resources Micah had dredged up so they had taken their leave earlier. Micah watched as the men all huddled around while Vesemir used a stick to draw in the dirt, giving Arek advice on the mountain paths. Saki was nodding her head up and down, ready to go. She chuckled to herself that the mare had settled down so well and had become such an excellent mount for a witcher. /'At least the horses don't hate me,'/ she thought. She didn't blame Lambert for his reaction the previous day, and if their places were reversed she couldn't be sure she would have done differently.

Arek was still talking with Geralt and Eskel when the old witcher came to her side. Pulling her in for an avuncular hug, he admonished her to be careful. "I'm going to tell you the same thing I told Arek. Get up there, take your look around and do what you need to do, but come back to Kaer Morhen. Lambert will get over it. I've been around long enough to know that if it hadn't been you who came up with it, someone else would have devised the trials, and we would be none the wiser concerning this new threat." The Wolven master witcher smiled kindly at her. "Keep practicing your signs, child, you're doing well with them. When you return, when this mess with the Wild Hunt is over, I'll teach you how to swing a sword." He patted her shoulder once more and turned while the three younger men joined them.

"I packed extra provisions for you." said Eskel, laying his hand on the panniers strapped to the nearest horse. "Winter comes early in these mountains, especially this far north. If the weather turns foul, pitch the tent and go to ground until things clear up." Arek nodded while the scarred man continued, "I agree with Vesemir. When you're done up there, come back. Both of you," Eskel emphasized, pinning Micah with a serious look in his golden eyes. "Do what you need to do, but if you find any witcher secrets, I'd like to know."

The Wolves clasped hands with the travelers then watched as the pair mounted their horses, leading the pack animals down the road on the first leg of their journey. Sun dappled the valley and the song of birds fortifying their winter nests trilled as they made good time on the northward track. Rugged peaks rose into rarefied azure sky of the high mountains, the tops laced with permanent snow caps. Though the day was warm, there was a faint bite at the back of her throat when Micah savored a breath of the autumn day. In two months' time, this valley would be packed with snow and, if fate were kind, she and her companion would enjoy the company of the witchers at Kaer Morhen for the winter. Her thoughts turned to Lambert, then, hoping the young witcher would forgive her. An hour later, as if summoned from her musings, she saw the lean man watching them from a pile of ruins at the far northern boundary of the valley. His arms crossed his chest and his face was twisted in a bitter scowl as he leaned against the broken crenelation atop an ancient, tumbledown parapet, glaring after them until they disappeared into the primordial forest.

The further they ventured from Kaer Morhen, the more pristine and wild the landscape became until they could believe they were first people ever to trod these mountains or watch the mist climb up from the valleys far below them. The week long expedition was relatively uneventful, the most excitement being a pair of griffons gliding on updrafts overhead late on their first day. Arek told her they didn't usually come up this far north, as they liked warmer weather. Micah suggested that maybe it was environmental pressure and the griffons didn't like the wars amongst humans.

"Things always change," She told him, "the whole world turns in a long arc and life either adapts or it dies."

The days wore by as the pair traveled, falling into an easy silence together as the horses negotiated switchbacks and rocky scree. At night Arek held Micah close, cocooned in a pile of sleeping furs, stroking her to passion, then cuddling in its aftermath. In the shared warmth before sleep overtook them, they talked about the traditional Path of the witchers, debating the necessity of it being a predetermined course, and argued the wisdom of bringing more witchers into a world that hated them. Micah argued the value of a witcher's codex, his ideals and the culture into which he had been adopted and raised. Arek argued back that it was a false culture, that the codex was little more than what any particular witcher wanted to use to manipulate a point at any given time and ideals were shaky things to begin with, that most witchers really didn't have them.

They climbed, following Micah's map, for five days and finally found themselves on vast snowfields. A fortuitous accident led to their discovery of the ancient elven ruins high atop a cold, snowy pass there in the northern reaches of the Blue Mountains. The air was like frozen, particulated glass, burning their lungs with lacerating cold even through woollen scarves they had wrapped around their faces. Masks wrapped their faces, protecting their eyes from the vicious glare light reflected off the snowpack as they peered through thin vertical strips cut in the stiff leather.

Arek was two horse lengths in front of her as Micah struggled to control her mount, the sun nearing its zenith for the day. Her stallion danced in agitation at the top of a high precipice the companions traversed. A frozen waterfall of sparkling ice fell over the edge of the world in a dizzying cascade that subtly beckoned them to come ever closer to its deadly boundary. Suddenly, a great winged lizard - as white as the snow around them - lunged up from the moraine below, kreeling like a thousand trumpets blasting at once. Micah's mount reared on his back legs, screaming in fear, as the girl clung desperately to his mane trying to stay in the saddle. The overwrought animal tiptoed in a tight circle, eyes rolling white, and bolted away from the cliff, up the mountainside atop the packed snow. All Micah could do was hang on for dear life.

The packhorses, too, had panicked and were running alongside her, their desperate lungs chugging air like great bellows, punctuating their frenzied charge. The girl tried to make axii, but her fingers were stiff from fright. Finally getting it right, the tiny woman hoped it would be enough to check her panicked horse. Micah drew deep within herself and threw the sign for all she was worth at the terrified animal, commanding it to stop. The stallion planted his hooves, skidding to a rapid halt, hurtling Micah over his head onto the white expanse of hard snow. He waited there patiently while Arek, on Saki's back, caught up. The little woman was painfully coming to her feet when the ground underneath her gave way, plunging her with an ominous crack into a yawning crevasse. It happened so fast she didn't even have time to scream.

Arak threw himself from Saki's back and crawled toward the glittering and hauntingly blue ice of the glacier, finally exposed what it was. Neither he nor Micah were well versed concerning travel in the mountains above the tree line, nor had they been educated about the dangers of crossing glaciers. Fear clawing at his gut, the witcher had no idea what to expect when he peered into the gaping crack to find his lover. She lay some twenty feet below him on rocky stubble a good way past where she had fallen in.

"Micah!" He shouted, hearing a faint groan from the woman below.

"Tell me the falling is going to stop, Arek. The falling needs to stop now." She pushed herself up and groaned again. Relieved, he could see that she had not so much fallen as slid down a glacial ramp and didn't seem to be terribly worse for wear.

He tested the ice, gauged its incline and then hoped the horses would be alright because he didn't think he could get them down. For good measure, he used axii on all four steeds to order them not to wander far and to come back to this spot. He imposed his will implacably on them, then slipped and slid his way down into an underworld of white and blue stillness. It was cold like he had never known before. He looked around and saw they were in an icy cavern twenty feet high, seventy feet wide and hundreds of feet long. It felt unnatural under the ice, like a glowing, blue tomb except for the pops and creaking groans that wailed intermittently in the unnerving stillness. It made his hackles rise and his hand twitched for the hilt of his sword.

"Look, there!" she pointed and he stared at what had drawn her attention. It was the top of a spire of some sort, sticking up from the ice below their feet and rising up twenty feet to become embedded in the ice above their heads. The architecture was Elven and very, very old. An archway opened into a room that led to stairs descending into darkness. Witcher and woman looked at each other, sharing that primordial dread of the unknown for a heartbeat, before they followed the stairs into the cold bowels of the forgotten citadel, accompanied by popping groans as they traveled deeper in.

They came to a turning in the labyrinthine halls that seemed to be carved into the very mountain itself where the character of the stone suddenly changed. Behind them, there had been beautifully dressed white marble and flying buttresses, now slabs of smooth gray concrete marched forward, leading them on. Micah held up the torch she had insisted they light as she inspected the crumbling walls.

"It could be one of any number of buildings from my past. It LOOKS familiar, but that might be wishful thinking on my part. If the journal is to be believed, then this must lead to my laboratory."

They kept moving, reaching the end of the corridor blocked by the naked, uncut rock of the mountain. To their right was a doorway, held partially open by a slab stone, peeled off the living rock at some point in the past. Clambering over the obstruction, they discovered a narrow corridor that flanked the mountainside. Arek gripped his medallion in one fist to still its sudden quivering as they traversed the rubble strewn floor. Micah was holding her own pendant in the palm of her hand, scowling at it.

"There's magic here." Growled Arek uneasily as he slipped his silver sword from its sheath on his back. "Stay behind me and be ready to run back the way we came." The explorers inched forward, senses on high alert, seeing a faint glow at the far end of the passageway. Proceeding with great caution, they found a double doorway set into the smooth wall that blocked their path, covered in a pulsating, magical aura that thrummed with ancient power. The words over the door were faded, but Micah could just make them out in the flickering light of the torch.

Area 51-924

Caution RADIATION

Authorized Personnel Only

"This is it," she said, expelling a breath, her spine tingling with excitement. "Now we just need to figure out how to get inside."


	17. The Trial of Grief

**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**

 **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

 **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**

* * *

 ** _WARNING: very strong themes and graphic torture in this chapter. If you are at all squeamish, do not read it. Think G.R.R. Martin and Ramsay Bolton graphic. This is very much for Mature Audiences. Does this advance the plot? Yes, yes_**

* * *

 _I'm breathing in And breaking down_

 _I feel my time is running out._

 _The fire in my heart will burn me to the ground._

 _I did my part, I tried my best,_

 _the things I'm fighting to protect_

 _Always shatter into pieces in the end._

 ** _Bring Me Back To Life, by_**

 ** _Ht Bristol, Charlie Bannister, Vincent Steele & Nine One One_**

* * *

A steady drip drip of water bounced off the stone walls underneath Temple Isle and Bellville March, new commander of the Temple Guard since the unfortunate demise of Caleb Menge at the hands of the Butcher of Blaviken, paced, the steel shod heels and toes of his boots striking a counterpoint to the dripping water. He took his time, looking at the lean man who had been stripped of all but his leather breeches and forced into a kneeling position before him. Two hunters stood behind him holding his arms twisted back from his body in painfully cruel grasps, but the man wasn't struggling.

"Just, let Letitia and the children go. They've done nothing. They're innocent of any wrongdoing. We've paid our tithes, attended the temple, donated even more …"

The Witch Hunter with the steel tipped boots stopped in front of the pleading man, then kicked him across the jaw. Jad Karadin's cheek split open, adding to the already sad state of his face. Fresh bruises spread purple along his his scarred belly, ribs and back as well. All he could do at the moment was drip blood into the stone he was facing. He noticed his was not the only blood to so baptize that floor, only the most recent.

The witch hunter bent over him then and grinned maliciously, speaking softly to the man in forced supplication before him.

"It matters not what you say of their innocence. Letitia married you and by sheer association she and her brats are tainted by your filth. The fire will cleanse, though. It always cleanses." March turned and regarded the large pit before him. Irons were warming in the sacred fire burning there and 'The Spit' stood ready, awaiting a victim for slow roasting over the open flames.

The witch hunter stood and snapped his fingers. One of the subordinates, a young woman, hurriedly left the room letting the dungeon door slam behind her.

"Now, where were we. Ah yes." the torturer nodded at the underlings holding the man and one of them yanked his head up by his hair. Jad Karadin glared at the man before him, his teeth clenched. March crouched and looked into his eyes, his unnatural, slit pupiled, golden eyes.

"I've been told," continued the witch hunter, "that torturing witchers is useless. That they will die of a burst vessel in their brain before one can glean any useful information from them. I haven't found that to be true in practice. Witchers last a significantly longer time than normal people. It must be their unnatural, mutated physiognomy. I'm looking forward to seeing if it is false for you as well. But," the witch hunter continued in a sickening purr, "We'll demonstrate just how long a normal person lasts. Just remember, Karadin, that if she's righteous, the flames won't bother her at all. For now, we'll leave the bairns with their grandmother. Perhaps they haven't been corrupted, hmm? If you answer well, she won't suffer long." Bellville March's laughter slicked off the walls, echoing in stomach turning resonance as the door opened and a woman, stripped to her shift, was brought in. It was Letitia Karadin, the wife of his heart and hearth. The witcher began to howl in rage.

* * *

"Fuck, Geralt. I have a right to be pissed at her. She even said so herself." groused the younger witcher as they sat at the mountaintop shrine waiting for the power intrinsic in this place to seep into the phylactery that the White Wolf had brought from Novigrad.

"Like Vesemir said, if it wasn't her, it would have been someone else. And you can't put any blame on her for the conjunction. She wasn't involved in that." the white haired witcher stretched and settled his hip against the end of the alter.

The younger man expelled a breath violently and started to pace. "I used to have nightmares, still do to be honest, about the trials. My trial! Used to be I couldn't see any faces and just got used to it. Just screamed in my head. Now I see her face. Sticking those things in me, pushing in mutagens through those tubes. And I fucking can't do anything about it.

You know, She's the ultimate witcher's secret. She ploughing started the whole thing. We'd be better off destroying everything to do with the trials so no one could ever reproduce them. Maybe that means her too." He looked off down the valley. It really was beautiful here. If he could focus on the twisting leave of autumn he could pretend he didn't feel the twisting of conscience in his gut.

"Mhhm. I know those dreams. You don't want to kill her and you know it. This is just a reaction to anger, a face to focus on."

"No. I don't want to kill her." The stress leached out of his shoulders, "And I won't try running her off when they return. I think I'll winter somewhere else, though. You know? The place is falling into ruin, and it's not like Vesemir and I get along anyway."

"Yeah. Not sure I'll winter here either. Once Ciri is safe, I think I'm just going to disappear with Yen. Maybe hang up my swords for good."

Lambert looked at his companion in shock. "Quit being a witcher? What the hell, Geralt?"

"Why shouldn't we get to choose, if it comes right down to it. Why do we HAVE to die on the Path? Who wrote that in the stars? Karadin did it, you know. Gave it up, got married and settled down."

"Don't mention that cocksucker's name to me. I'm not kidding Geralt. I won't be responsible for what I do if you say his name again." Lambert punctuated this grim declaration by punching his left hand into his right palm, hard. His voice was a deadly slice in the night air.

"It was the right thing to let him go, Lambert. Any fool can swing a sword and kill someone. It takes a man who can see further afield not to, that maybe there was repentance, to forgive even a wrong as great as Aiden's death."

"Fuck, like you have any right to moralize. You didn't let Whoreson Junior live."

The one the elves dubbed Gwynbleidd scowled. "If you had seen the inside of that man's apartments, what he did to those women, knew what he was capable of doing if I let him live …" he looked off over the valley as his adam's apple worked and he held back the bitter gorge that threatened to erupt when he brought the image to mind. "He was more than just a murderer. There was something seriously wrong with his mind. Not to mention what he did to Ciri and Dudu. I've fought alghouls cleaner and more honorable than him. At least they don't torture and kill their prey slowly, for the fun of it."

Lambert leaned both fists on the other end of the altar, his shoulders slumped, his head down. "Why can't anything just be fucking simple?"

"Never was, never will be. Time to get this box back to Kaer Morhen. Eskel's cooking tonight."

Lambert groaned.

* * *

They said witchers were inhuman. They said mutants couldn't cry. They were all wrong. When the witch hunters had brought in his Letty, they tied her in a chair and used a simple hot poker on her.

"Tell us about witcher mutations." March demanded

"They change us, make us faster, stronger, that sort of thing."

SIZZLE …. SCREAM

"No, tell us about them, how did they turn you into a witcher."

"St.. s..stop!" His voice was ragged, "Trial of the Grasses. Herbs, mushrooms and then something … they opened my veins and put it inside me. That's all I know. I don't remember all of it"

SIZZZLE …. SCREAM

"WHAT herbs!"

"I don't know. I don't know. I never had anything to do with it, just my own trial. Please …"

SIZZZZZZZZZZLE …. SCREAM

"NO NO!" He screamed, lacerating his vocal cords. "PLEASE! I don't know, I don't know" he was sobbing.

March put the poker back into the fire to heat it up so it would glow pleasingly. He leaned over the weeping Letitia and began to kiss the crown of her head, keeping his gaze on her husband. His hand drifted over the raw, fresh burns on her face and neck, then delved into her shift and fondled her breast.

The cat school witcher struggled hard against his captors, trying to come to his feet.

"Leave her alone, get your hands off her!"

One of the witch hunters kicked him in the back of the knee, landing him back on the floor. The other one gripped the back of his head tighter and made him watch what March was doing to his wife. He could hear the her heart beat, like a fluttering bird in her chest, rapid and uneven.

"Kaer Morhen. Where is it?" March asked, still fondling the woman, moving his mouth down to suckle at her ear. Letitia whimpered.

"Blue Mountains. It's in the Blue Mountains in Kaedwen."

"Where!" the word was punctuated by the witch hunter's hand cruelly crushing Letty's breast, causing her to scream anew.

"Somewhere on the Gwenllech … that's all I know!"

March continued his fondling, letting his hand move down the sobbing woman's body and come between her thighs. It was by the expression on her face and the swallowed, terrified moan that Karadin knew the bastard had violated her with his hand. He struggled against his captors again and got his face pounded once on the floor.

"Now, from the beginning," said the witch hunter, languidly removing his hand from between her thighs and reaching behind him to grasp the torture implement, now glowing a bright whitish orange, "You will tell me everything you know. Everything. What are the mutagens used, how are they prepared, how are they administered. And then you will give me detailed directions to the witcher fortress of Kaer Morhen."

March laid a scorching line of fire along Letty's knee and sucked on her neck while he did it. The iron inched higher along the woman's thigh. She screamed with each touch, writhing in the grasp of the monster who held her.

"I've told you everything I know!" bellowed the witcher, his face contorted, trying desperately to break the hold of the hunters behind him.

"Is that so." Said March as he positioned the poker between Letitia's thighs and thrust it inside her. He maintained eye contact with his captive witcher and grinned in unholy lust. Her body arched in the chair and her screams were inhuman. March twisted the poker this way and that and the woman started convulsing. Jad could hear her heart fluttering in ventricular fibrillation. He roared his rage as he watched his beloved Letty die.

One of the hunters holding his arm was laughing and had loosed his grip. It was all Karadin needed. A sword found itself in his hand and, despite his wounds, he became whirling death in that room. The blade flashed and snicked through the throats of the men who had held him, then slashed down toward March's face. The witch hunter parried with the poker he had killed Letty with once, twice, then failed to dodged the blade as the tip sliced a line from his chin to his left temple, barely missing his eye. The other two hunters in the room moved to protect their leader and March, like the craven he was, stumbled out of the room, blood flowing in a river from his bifurcated face, roaring for reinforcements.

Jad Karadin dispatched the two guards and stumbled out after March. The hallway was deserted and he looked back into the torture chamber, back to his beloved. He went to her, his head dropping into her lap and he wept. But he was a witcher, and he was programmed to fight and survive. Swiftly, he undid her bonds and hefted her body over his left shoulder. Sniffing the air, he followed a current of fresh breeze through the labyrinthine halls until he wouldn't have been able to get back to where he had been if he had wanted to.

THERE, behind that door. It was coming from there. His aard was weak. It had been over a year since he had used witcher potions, or practiced any of his skills and his abused body was very short on reserves. But the sign did weaken the door enough for Karadin to kick it open. Inside the room, he found where the flagging on the floor was rotted away and there was just enough room for him to squirm through to the outside, on the cliffs of Novigrad. Thirty feet below him he could see the lip of a ledge or cave. It would be enough, he thought. Big enough to make a pyre for his Letitia.

He didn't remember how he managed to scale down the side of a cliff holding her dead body. In coming days and weeks, he refused to think about it. The witcher staggered into the cave. It went into the cliff quite a ways and ended up in a large room that had a pentagram on the floor and remains that still looked vaguely human and recently killed. He laid his burden on the floor and crossed her arms over her chest, stooping over her. His wrenching sobs echoed in the cold chamber.

"Now there, Letty, nothing to be frightened of. I'll keep you warm and you will never be alone." His forehead was pressed to her cold one and his hands caressed her dear face. "I'll join you in a little while, my love. We'll be together soon. I just have to make sure Tolly and Greta are safe. Wait for me, dearest." He hauled himself to his feet, feeling like he would never stand again, each breath feeling like crystallized shards of glass, and backed up a little. Then drawing on his dwindled reserves, he used igni to turn her body to charred ash.

It was time to retrieve his children and leave Novigrad. He would take them to Kaer Morhen, they would be safe there. The witchers there deserved to know. They deserved to know what they were up against. And if they chose to kill him for revealing their position, he would not fight back. Better to be dispatched by a blade swung in honor than to die by degrees to the hunters.

His mind made up, he left the cavern, setting his will to the north.


	18. Valley of The Snow Hare

**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**

 **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

 **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**

* * *

Micah stared at the magic barrier wondering at the powerful spell that had put it there. She voiced her thoughts and Arek agreed, tucking his medallion inside his gambeson to keep it from knocking about annoyingly.

"There's only one entrance to the lab." Micah waved, frustrated, at the double doors. "Maybe Triss or Yen would be willing to come back with us and dispel this."

"We won't have time, and besides they have their own worries." Shrugging he wandered down the hall, testing other doors.

"Right, then. Hmm." She pondered the glowing wall of arcane force a full minute before realizing the answer was in front of her all along, simply awaiting the correct password. To the right of the doorway, attached to the wall, a security panel protruded slightly from the barrier. She slid her finger over the old plastic housing and used a fingernail to pry the cover open. She jumped back a little when the panel lit in response to her exploratory touch, displaying a three by three grid in glowing, luminescent green.

Arek made her jump again when he spoke just over her right shoulder. "What sorcery is that?"

"Not sorcery, science. It's a lock. I used to have a key card I inserted in this slot here to open it, but I could also use a key code password … If only I could remember it now." Tapping her chin, Micah cocked her head and struggled to recall those bygone days. Tentatively, she tapped six numbers into the grid. Nothing happened. She tried again with a different set of numbers. Again, nothing. Scowling at the lock as if a stern glance would reveal forgotten secrets, the tiny woman huffed in frustration.

"Would have been nice of your co-workers to tell you the secret." Arek murmured, palming his chin.

"Arek, you are a GENIUS!" Grabbing her lover by the arms, Micah danced on tiptoe to kiss him, then turned to her bag and retrieved the journal. Thumbing through the ancient pages, she mumbled to herself.

"Any key code in this book would have been added after the barrier had been put in place, so it would be nearer the end. Arek," she commanded, "bring the torch closer so I can see what I'm reading!" He complied and sat next to her, puzzling over the unfamiliar writing as he snuck a hand around her shoulders. She flipped back and forth several times between a handful of pages. Suddenly, her face lit into a broad grin and she pushed to her feet using Arek's shoulder. Crossing the fingers of her left hand, she punched six numbers into the grid with her right index finger. "Let's hope this does it!" She held her breath and hit the "enter" button.

With a loud "whoosh" the magical shield flickered out of existence. A warm breath of ancient air carried puzzling scents Arek couldn't identify. Micah stuffed the book in her pack and led the way inside. The hum of electricity welcomed them into a large room as lights, alerted by hidden sensors, flickered to life. Computers and instrumentation sat awaiting input, free of dust as if people had left only a few minutes ago. Micah's fingers trailed along the black surface of a work bench where she had manipulated genomes, gliding over chromed gas outlets and water taps. There, in the corner, was the door to the animal room where experimental animals were housed. The little geneticist pushed open the door and was shocked to find the rats and a single bonobo chimp still in residence as if they had all slept for fifteen hundred years. Perhaps they had. She opened one of the shoebox shelves to find a very large, white rat, just stirring to consciousness. It backed into a corner, hissing and squeaking at them defiantly as if ready to declare war on them. Arek gasped when he looked at its eyes, so similar to his own yet disturbingly different, glittering green malevolence at him.

"We used anaconda DNA to make the eyes. Those were always the hardest to get right. The augmentations also increased aggressiveness and boosted intelligence in individuals." said Micah in an offhand manner. "These rats are sexually viable within their own genetic grouping, but not with normal rats. The augmentations breed true and even though the sample size is small, I won't risk turning them loose in the wild. They could all die of exposure on the glacier … then again," she shrugged, "they might find a way to thrive and there will be witcher rats running amok. I'll have to euthanize them all since none of them are going back with us." She closed the shoebox, heading toward the large, empty cells set in the far end of the room. The bedding in one of the cages shift as the witcher caught a whiff of something warm and simian. Stepping close to the bars, Arek crouched down to look closer and nearly fell backward when the wizened face of a chimp popped up in front of him. Like the rat, it was mutated, but quick intelligence shone in the creature's solemn gaze. As swift as a wink, an inner membrane licked up the animal's eye then back down to settle under the lower eyelid, taking the man by surprise.

"What the hell?" Arek exclaimed as he quickly rose to his feet.

"Nictitating membrane," said Micah smiling into the cage.

Arek scowled. "Nicta-whating?"

The little woman chuckled and slipped into lecture mode. "A nictitating membrane. It's a kind of inner eyelid that helps keep the eyeball moist and protects it from dust and debris. We couldn't get it to translate in the rats."

Arek scratched his chin as the chimp held her hand out to him. Cutting a look at Micah, he hooked a thumb toward the cage. "I think it wants out. Is it going back with us?"

"Her name is Betty and we are definitely taking her with us." Micah stood, chewing her bottom lip for a moment. "It's a shame none of the males are here. A breeding pair of augmented chimps would have been useful." Scanning the room, Micah found a key hanging behind the door. She crooned softly to the small ape in her native tongue as she unlocked the cage.

 _"There's my Betty. There's my gorgeous girl. Did you have a good sleep?"_ Betty pushed gently against the door of the cage, seeming to know what the keys meant. As the door swung open, the chimp held her arms to Micah as if she were a toddler, making a happy sound when the little geneticist picked her up and settled her on one hip.

Micah sighed, then spoke softly to the witcher without taking her eyes from Betty. "Arek, do you have any of that travel cake with you?" The witcher delved in a belt pouch then handed over two chunks of the trail rations, watching his companion break off pieces for the chimp. Betty seemed to like the offering, holding a palm out and chirping for more. Micah passed the chimp to Arek, smiling as he looked at her in panic.

"Don't worry. She's actually very docile, which is a good thing because she's strong enough to tear your arm out of its socket." Micah's offhand words were far from comforting. They spent an hour feeding the chimp and letting her get acquainted with them. When she showed a marked preference for Arek's company, Micah just laughed and teased him about gaining a new girlfriend.

"Arek," Micah's tone turned somber. "I need you to babysit Betty while I … take care of the rats. If she hears or smells what I'm doing, she's likely to panic." Agreeing the last thing they needed to deal with was a frantic chimp, Arek walked the cold halls, cuddling Betty under his heavy cloak as they traversed the ancient ruins.

They discovered rooms with marvelously preserved murals and intricately carved statuary pondering the cold in solitary thought. One entire hall was an amazing master work in tile that brought to mind ocean depths. Sea serpents played with mermaids, sirens danced in the clouds and great whales breached the waves only to dive after schools of tiny, red shrimp. Never one to be deeply affected by artwork, the well of mourning that crested inside him surprised Arek. When he and Micah left this place, the Citadel would slip back into its cold, solitary slumber.

Micah found him an hour later standing at the base of the ramp, staring into the impossibly blue slice of sky visible at the top of the crevasse. Though he heard her light tread grinding in the loess dust, he didn't turn. When she slipped beside him, Arek wrapped an arm around her and buried his face in her hair, comforting himself as much as her.

"Is it done?" He asked and felt her nod as she nestled into his warmth.

"Yes. There was plenty of pentobarbital left, enough to send them off peacefully and I completely incinerated the remains. I don't think we'll be able to bury this citadel, so nothing biologically viable should remain."

"Another new word." He scratched his chin, trying to keep his tone light. "You're expanding my vocabulary, but I don't think I'll ever be able to use pento-whatever it was in a sentence."

"It's a chemical used to put animals to sleep. Not as in slumber, but to kill them peacefully, painlessly." Micha's smile was sad. "It's still killing and I don't like it."

"So, what's next?" he asked.

"We need to figure out where the power supply is and if it's portable, take it and all the lab equipment that we can carry." They walked together back toward the ramp in the ice. "I checked the computers on the way out and they still work. I don't think I could network them together, but I should be able to access the data on each one. Luckily, they're all laptops. Desktop machines would take up too much room and we'd have to leave them."

The sky was beginning to darken, revealing the first evening star glimmering upon their frozen world when they attempted to climb the ramp. The path proved too slick to navigate so they used careful blasts of igni to carve a broad stairway to the surface of the glacier. The horses hadn't wandered, but they pawed the ice looking for something to graze. Carefully, Arek was able to lead all four animals under the ice and provided them with warmed oat mash to tide them over. He figured it was safer for them here than being exposed on the surface, vulnerable to the white draconid should it decide to go hunting.

"Let's get the panniers ready for loading," Micah said. "All the notes are accounted for. But there's also lab equipment I want to take with."

They returned to the entrance of the citadel hand in hand. Betty had fallen asleep at some point and was curled against the witcher, her arms and legs looped around him, holding her in place. At the doorway, Micah pulled out a strange object and pressed a button on its surface. Arek just stared as a white light illuminated the gloomy interior.

"Alright. What is that? I'm not even surprised anymore." His voice was deadpan, but he held out his hand to examine Micah's new toy.

"This is a flashlight. Or torch, depending on where you're from in my world." She said, letting him play with it. He turned the beam on and off, nearly blinding himself when he shined it directly into his eyes. She chuckled at his antics, wrinkling her nose at his scowl. "It doesn't smoke, fits in a pocket and produces light on demand. What's not to love?"

They set to work and started carting things out as the evening progressed. Betty awoke and insisted on riding Arek's shoulder the whole time. When he wasn't moving around, he felt her parting each strand of his hair and picking delicately through the short strands with her nimble fingers.

"Do I have bugs in there or something? I thought I was relatively clean," he complained while making a trip inside.

"It's called grooming," Micah giggled. "She's letting you know how much she likes you. Just wait till the kissing starts."

"The WHAT?" he exclaimed, skidding to a halt with a look of horror crawling across his face.

"The kissing," she laughed as she explained, in detail, what getting a kiss from Betty was like.

Back in the lab, the woman opened the doors of a stout metal cabinet, tilting her head inquisitively at what she found.

"What are those?" She pointed to row upon row of small bluish white crystals, reminiscent of large diamonds, packed carefully in twenty wooden crates. They glittered brightly, resting in dimpled depressions amidst an abundance of shredded paper.

"Hmm," Arek picked up one crystal carefully, turning it so it caught the light. "Unless I'm mistaken, these are megascope crystals. Mages use them to record information or to power communication and teleportation devices."

"Then we definitely better take them with us," she decided.

Tearing down the laboratory took six hours of heavy labor, carrying equipment and documents through cold corridors and narrow stairways. As they stood in the emptied room, Arek scratched at the stubble on his chin.

"All this stuff took power to run, right?" he asked, poking at one of the outlets on a work bench.

"Careful!" exclaimed Micah, as he pushed his finger toward a vertical slit housed in black plastic. "You stick your finger in there and you'll get a nasty shock." Arek pulled his finger back with a suspicious glare at the innocent wall socket.

"Well, what's providing the power?" Arek asked. "Those ... what did you call them? ... Laptops worked, I assume they were drawing from a source."

Micah nodded, tapping her chin as she looked up. "I imagine the remainder of my team didn't want to rewire the whole lab and all our electricity was routed through the ceiling before the accident. See these?" She put her hand on a square metal tube attached to a narrow pillar that ran from floor to ceiling. "We should be able to trace these conduits back to a source."

Arek leaped atop one of the work benches and poked at a ceiling tile, revealing a dark space above the lab. He stuck his head through the hole and saw a dull, metal box suspended in the corner near the animal room. He jumped down and they moved a desk to the corner. Micah had to put a chair on the desk to get high enough to inspect the box.

"I think this is it," she said. "Look, this conduit plugs right into this receptacle. It seems well enough insulated to just pull it out and disconnect it." She chewed doubtfully at her bottom lip. "Just, be careful."

Micah helped steady the ungainly metal cube as the witcher grasped the large plug on the side of the box and pulled hard. She didn't tell him her fear of electrocution until the hum of power died with a loud click and shuddering whir as ventilation fans ground to a halt. Arek pulled the box out of the ceiling as Micah turned the flashlight on, careful to aim it away from the witcher. The power source lay inside, a pulsating ball of pure energy trapped within a sturdy dimeterium housing fitted with twenty standard outlets and seven heavy-duty receptacles in addition to the single huge jack that fed the lab. Hauling the last load out of the building in the dark, they surveyed the large pile of equipment, samples, and documentation. Dismantling four of the desks, they fashioned a travois for each horse to drag what couldn't be packed in panniers or saddlebags.

The companions finally decided to make camp inside the building and get an early start back to Kaer Morhen. The top room of the tower was large enough to accommodate humans, horses and a tired chip as they built a cheery fire from empty pallet crates and old furniture scrounged from around the ruins. They slept curled together, with Betty snuggled between them, for warmth under a mound of furs.

* * *

A quick breakfast of oats sweetened with honey energized them the next morning. Before they left for good, Arek took Micah to the Ocean room, feeling once again the sense of sorrow at having to leave it behind. After a quick tour of some of the other wonders in the elven citadel, they finally loaded up the beasts and led them back up the stairway to the top of the glacier. Arek used axii on the horses and Betty, commanding the animals to stay put.

Micah insisted they had to destroy access to the facility. Without the power source connected to the lab's electrical system, there was no way to re-establish the magical barrier, if indeed it could be done at all.

"We could blow the whole thing up using those industrial sized propane tanks in the storage closet," Micah suggested. "All we need to do is collapse that hallway."

They returned to the lab, piling as much old furniture and kindling as they could find in the hallway just past the double doors. Arek set several dancing-star, dragon's dream, and grapeshot bombs so they would shatter and detonate when the propane exploded, hopefully creating enough of a concussion to bury the entrance to the lab. Working together, they rolled the tanks out of the storage closet, setting them near the fire and cracking the taps just enough to hear a strong hissing sound. Arek and Micah hurried through the ancient citadel, hoping to be at the surface before everything blew.

Luck was with them. They were mounted and had led the horses to the rocky edge near the cliff when they heard a "WHUMP" and felt the glacier shudder through layers of rock and ice. The surface of the glacier over the citadel collapsed in on itself, slumping ominously. Like guilty children, Micah and Arek looked at each other and spurred the horses to move faster, dread and urgency clawing at their backs. Just as they stepped onto rocky scree bordering the vast snowfield, they heard a sickening roar behind them and turned in time to watch the top layer of the glacier hurtle over the edge of the cliff, carrying with it the pinical of the citadel's tower, burying the secrets of the ancient edifice lodged deep in the remaining ice. Once again, the witcher thought of the beautiful ocean room, now forever lost, living only in their memories.

* * *

Sixteen days after leaving Kaer Morhen, tired and road weary, they rode into the lower courtyard where they interrupted a man and woman in Temerian blue military garb squaring off against an enormous witcher. He was taller than Arek and broad as an ox, with biceps as thick as Micah's waist. Their tableau broken, all three people turned and stared as the couple dismounted.

"Who the hell are you?" snarled the smaller man with an irritated tick in his right jaw. He glared at the chimp who still insisted on riding on Arek's back like a mischievous child. The blond, short haired woman next to him stared in horror at Betty. The bonobo, sensing the animosity directed her way, curled her arms around Arek's neck and burbled anxiously.

The Manticore held the chimp as though she were a frightened child as he stuck a hand out toward the Blue Stripe commando. "I'm Arek of Malleore. This is my companion, Micah Von Waller. And my hairy friend here is Betty."

"Fucking witcher convention," scoffed the blond girl in a nasty tone, catching sight of the simian's eyes peeking fearfully at her. She never knew witchers made mutants out of animals.

"It IS a witcher hold," said Arek, keeping his voice neutral as he let his hand drop.

Eskel strode toward the group, striving to defuse the tense stand-off. "Wolf said he was going to send us people. I'll take who ever shows up, to be honest," he barked. "We need every ally we can get against the wild hunt. Roche, you should know what it means. The enemy of my enemy is my friend." The scarred witcher glared at the leader of the Blue Stripes, nodding as the man folded his arm against his chest.

"Just keep the fucking King Killer away from us. I'll never forgive him for assassinating Foltest," snarled the commander of the Blue Stripes and he stomped away, followed by the blond girl. Letho watched their departure before turning toward the new arrivals.

Eskel clasped hands with Arek and hugged Micah. "Welcome back, you two, I see you didn't come empty handed," The Wolven witcher did a double take, looking intently at Betty. "Am I mistaken or does that … creature … have witcher eyes?"

"She does," Micah replied. "We'll explain everything once we've unpacked and cleaned up. The original mutation lab would probably be the logical place to take it all. Give us a hand and I'll introduce you to Betty"

"Betty - a female then?" Eskel's brows furrowed. "Come on. We'll put Letho here to work."

"I can't wait to hear this story," rumbled the giant in a Nazarian purr that was soft, mysterious and deadly all at the same time.


	19. In The Beginning

Micah insisted everything be settled into the basement and then led the witchers up to Yennifer's lab with the many boxes of megascope crystals. She refused to say anything more about their trip than that it had been relatively uneventful until they arrived at their destination. She was surprised to see Lambert lending a hand. She figured he hated her everlastingly. The notable exceptions to their entourage were Vernon Roche and Ves, who refused to willingly spend time in Letho's presence.

They arrived at the solar at the top of the south tower, interrupting Yen and Tris arguing about something. The two hushed when the group tramped up the stairs and laid twenty boxes of the crystals upon the floor.

"What are these, Micah?" Asked Tris, counting the crystals which lay twelve to a box for a total of two hundred and forty.

"I THINK they're video recordings from my colleagues. If I am correct, they may detail exactly what we went to find."

Arek and Micah launched into the tale, describing the great white flying lizard that had resembled something like a forktail, but much larger, that led to the discovery of the citadel under the ice. They explained finding Betty, who had, it seemed, taken a liking to Lambert and was busy lipping his armor. All the witchers and the two sorceresses where in turns shocked and fascinated by the chimp's witcher like eyes. They related the experience of looting the lab and destroying the rest, ensuring it was entirely inaccessible to anyone else.

Yennifer turned to her megascope and started warming it up. "I see those crystals have some sort of organizational markings on them." said the sorceress, "Micah, if you can read them, perhaps you will hand me the first in the series."

The group watched as the man Micah identified as Robert Ulrich, one of her lead researchers, spoke to them from a past fifteen hundred years dead. Micah translated.

* * *

 _January 12th, Year 1_

 _We've found ourselves stranded here, a world very much like Earth. The date on this journal entry is arbitrary and I chose it just because that portal sucked us through eleven days ago. Maybe it had something to do with what the Stargate group was doing. Don't you just love the military? So original. So, here we are - the Super Soldier group - stuck in a frikin' cold environment with our lab intact, but no electricity to run anything, let alone anything like a server to retrieve database material._

 _At least we were lucky enough to pop into some sort of structure and there's ample scrap wood to build a fire. Most of us, anyway. Only half of Greaves came through. It was really gruesome. Dr. M - that is Dr. Micah Patterson, the lead geneticists in our tank, didn't come through at all. I hope she died fast and not like Greaves. God, nobody deserves to die like that_

 _The place is pretty deserted. Not sure who lived here, but their architecture is pretty. Luckily we did have weapons and the local fauna seems very familiar. Rabbits, wolves and deer. Go fig. At least we won't starve and Ted Johannson says he used to hunt all the time with his pop in the Great Smokies. I hope he's a better shot than he is a lab tech, though. I know for a fact the colonel was going to sack him and send him packing just before the big explosion._

… _._

 _February 20th, Year 1_

 _Still using Earth normal dating. We have made contact with indigenous life forms. Tall, skinny, attractive and pointy ears. Yeah, Lord of the Rings, baby. Elves._

 _Dr. Gladstock (Ginny, bless her heart) spent several years studying linguistics before she decided her life's calling was genetics, has been making strides communicating with them._

 _Johannson brought in one of those oddball suckers that burrow, yesterday. Kind of like goblins from old horror stories, but with this big pouch under their jaw and nasty teeth. Joe Dandrige started calling it a Nekker because, well, the weird neck pouch and all. We need to conserve our ammo, though, shouldn't be hunting these boogiemen if we can help it. Still, it's fascinating and Ginny and I will be doing an autopsy on it tomorrow._

… _._

 _April 2017_

 _Huh, been so busy I don't even know the exact date or what day it is. The natives have some sort of quantum control over the material world here. Magic is what some people would call it, I guess. But it seems they can sense … how do I put it … lines of intersecting quantum flux and some of them can direct it using their voices and positioning of their hands and the rest of their bodies. It has to be some sort of vibrational energy thing. I'm no physicist and quantum mechanics pretty much stumped me in college. Still, it's interesting to conjecture._

 _We dissected the nekker. Definitely not Terran, it's heart was where our spleen would be and the guts … strange design. Really strange. Not hominid, more like a hyena or something. We collected some good samples from bone marrow and blood._

 _Ginny got Eleneth'Nor to create a power source for us, a stable lightning ball kind of thing. Joe and Ted are working on getting the lab going again and setting up a limited network between the computers we have. We may not have access to sequencing data from GenBank or other think tanks, but I think we have enough going here that we can get good data._

… _._

 _Late Fall_

 _The Aen Seidhe (that's what the elves call themselves) say that there's going to be a big conjunction soon. Some sort of rift that happened back in the dead of winter that is tearing open more and more - gee think it was us? Humans are so stupid! They say it's happened many times before and that's why we see some really whacked things here - nekkers, shapeshifters (for reals, man!), fish men that eat the dead, you name it!_

 _We are nearly out of ammunition, but I've been studying with some of our elven friends and learning how to swing a sword, Conan style. Not sure why, but they think this will be a particularly nasty conjunction of worlds and it may tip the apple cart with what it strands here. We have to protect ourselves._

 _I've been going over the data we've been collecting as well as our previous research. The Super Soldier project might come in handy. I know Dr. M thought we were really close to human trials just before the explosion. We had successful augments in grasshoppers, rats and bonobo chimps amongst the higher orders. I know she would have wanted us to continue our research in her memory._

 _Some of the genetic material we've collected has promise for mutating the human genome. If what Eleneth'Nor says is true, we may well be in need of Titans, augmented fighters who can tip the tide against the threat to the sentient races here. I'm just glad that it was so cold when we arrived. Our phage stock was preserved and we might just pull it off. Ginny has a plan._

… _._

 _4 years after conjunction - I'm not sure what the date is …._

 _It's been a long while since I've written in this journal. How interesting is it that the conjunction pulled humans from Earth as well as beings from other worlds from time periods all over the spectrum. It was devastating to witness, like the fabric of reality was split and mutilated then sewn back together in some sort of perverse way._

 _It seems this rift goes through time as well as space. Einstein would be happy to know it. We developed our Titan process and have had … well, we've had results. Dr. M would not have liked the way we did things, considering. She was always on about doing it right and the most elegant solution._

 _We haven't had time for elegance and we aimed for getting results that would help us survive, and they did. I'll give it that._

 _Our process does work, we have created supermen with eyes like a cat, fast as snakes, strong as bears and who have the cunning of wolves. But what a cost. It's an ungodly painful process and has a high mortality rate. Out of 100 volunteer subjects of all the sentient races that participated, only 12 humans survived the ordeal. If it weren't for the quantum bending of the elves, it would have failed entirely. Those 12, though … they all seem to to have a solid grasp of the combat arts. We have no way to make rounds for our firearms now, so that's what we are falling back on. Swords and sorcery to fight monsters._

 _No women survived the trials of augmentation. Might have something to do with certain spots on the Y chromosome being the big change factor. Women have two X chromosomes, so - we'll have to do more research. If we have time and resources. We ended up having to sacrifice all the bonobos but Betty, using their stem cells to create our first humanoid Titans. It's really sad._

 _We moved the most of the lab down into a Valley at a lower elevation some time ago, though there's still a good amount of equipment at the Snow Hare site. The place we moved to is called Valley of the Sea - Dol Muir in the alderspeach - because of all the fossils here. The stones here were once the bead of an ancient ocean. Caer Muir'en is what the facilities there will be called when they are done,though there isn't any castle and we've pretty much moved into a cave. At least we aren't so close to altitude now and there's more seasons down here._

 _The sages erected a magical stasis field around the original lab and tied it into a key code panel. I've included the code in the pages of the journal if anyone needs to actually get in. We left Betty there, along with the rats. Their augments proved stable through generations, and they even showed propensity toward longevity. Another rout of investigation to explore when we have time and resources. But, survival, you know?_

 _Betty is the only one of her kind and as such is an endangered resource. Being in stasis, she may help us later down the road, when we are able to focus on more than living through the horrors day by day._

… _._

… _.. 45 years. It's been 45 years since we made the Titans. The struggle to survive has been immense. I miss Ginny, Ted and Joe. They have all passed on before me, but my time will come soon. I can sense it in my bones. We succeeded though. We solidified the process to make our protectors and all those creatures that were pulled through the rifts caused by the conjunction, they all donated to the cause. Their genetic material helped us to create monster hunting supermen. And we were able to codify the process so it's repeatable._

 _It exacts a terrible price though, most who undergo the changes won't survive. We tried to get the changes to settle in for women, to make a breeding population of our supermen. We simply have not had the resources in the struggle to survive to figure it out._

 _Their chromosomes are changed enough to not be compatible with human or humanoid DNA. Regular Terran humans can mate with dwarves, elves, gnomes and halflings with no problems, but our supermen cannot produce viable offspring._

 _Speaking of kids, the process seems to "take" better with the young. It's godawful to watch, barbaric, and only about thirty percent survive. But they are needed. They are desperately needed if any of the sentients are to survive._

 _There is talk from Eleneth'Nor that the rifts are going to cause a lot of trouble, that the precipitating event, which we do think was the explosion of the Stargate project, will result in the destruction of all the worlds that have been touched by that. She says it's like ripples on a pond that go out and out from the rock you tossed in. But those ripples will hit the edge of the pond and rebound back. The universe is going to tear itself apart unless the Seidhe can figure a way to close the rifts and all their echos. They have ways of knowing these things that I just cannot fathom, but I've seen them prove true over and over._

 _I've explained the genetics of the Titans to her, and she thinks it's possible to breed a group of individuals who will be able to channel all the wild flux, the quantum strings and particles, that has resulted throughout time and space. It will be a very long range project, however and will require people dedicated to directing the program. That leaves us short lived humans out of the equation except as possible breeding stock, and of course a population to draw the Titans from. To that end, I've done my best to educate them on genetics and how to direct the program for the desired result._

 _Elneth has been such a constant companion and good friend. She has helped me to transcribe these journal entries onto resonance crystals for posterity. Put a crystal in the apparatus and it acts like a hologram - a video diary. Go figure. Have a level of magic high enough and you can fool yourself it's technology._

* * *

"Let me get this straight," drawled the mountain that was Letho, "This is the ORIGIN of witchers?"

"Yes," said Micah. "Let me introduce myself fully. I'm Dr. Micah Patterson Von Winslow. I didn't adopt the last part of my name until I landed here, twenty-five years ago, after having fallen through the rift caused by the explosion of the Stargate project spoken of by my colleague."

The big man pointed at her, then said, "You made the chimp. And your work made us."

She nodded, keeping a wary eye on him and getting ready to aard him if he came for her. He was more than twice as big as she was and would probably crush her where Lambert had only shaken her. But he only grunted then crossed his arms over his chest, deep in thought.

"The man said they had moved the lab, and I am thinking it was into this valley. This was the first witcher school, after all, and Kaer Morhen is actually a degradation of the elder speech. The original name was Caer Muir'en. That means their second laboratory is somewhere in this valley." said Vesemir, stroking his chin.

"How old is the castle? It can't be fifteen hundred years old." Yennefir asked.

"No, no. The castle was built when I was a boy going through my own trials."

"And when was that, Vesemir?" asked Lambert, voicing the question on all their minds, "How old ARE you?"

The old man laughed and said "Old enough to know better, Lambert. In any event, there were other fortifications in place around the valley that were here long before I was, so it really doesn't matter when this castle was built. That won't help us face the hunt, or the Witch Hunters."

"But," said a new, soft spoken voice, from the stairs, "it may well help us defeat the white frost." A tall, pale man with the sharp features of an elf strode up among them. He looked shaky to Micah, like he shouldn't be out of bed just yet. He cast her an appraising look then regarded the rest of the company. "It would be helpful to watch the rest of the entries. Perhaps there is within them, a way to neutralize the threat of the Wild Hunt and help Zirael as well."

"I don't know about anyone else, but I'm done watching the crystals." Said Lambert. His eyes slid toward Micah and then away. "We need to prepare for the hunt. Soon as Geralt gets back with Ciri, we'll have a fucking fight on our hands and these diary entries aren't going to help us fight them. Anyone wants me, I'll be down in the practice yard." The wiry witcher pulled himself off the wall where he had sprawled for the presentation and briskly strode down the stairs. Arek, Eskel, and Letho soon followed, with Betty bringing up the rear of their recession.

Vesemir paused at the top of the spiraling stairs. "I'm satisfied, child, that you weren't the one who created the trial of the grasses. It may have been your work that was used to develop them, but you are not responsible for what they did in your absence." he stepped up to her then and patted her shoulder, then followed the rest of the witchers down and out of the keep.  
"Come, sit by me while we watch the rest of these entries, doctor." Said the tall, painfully thin man. "I have many questions for you."

"As do we all." Said Yennifer, preparing to slide the next crystal into her megascope.


	20. Biology Lesson

_**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**_

 _ **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**_

 _ **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**_

* * *

The Aen Elle introduced himself as Micah settled next to him. They watched the crystals well into the early evening as Micah interpreted her colleagues' words and Avallac'h translated the elder speech for the group. Finally, they came to the end, sitting back in their chairs and digesting the detailed information.

Turning to Micah, Avallac'h dipped his head as he murmured, "I understand that it was partly due to your research that Yennefer and the witchers were able to successfully use the Trial of the Grasses on me. I must thank you."

"You're welcome." She looked him over, noting that he really wasn't well at all. "Are you sure you should be out of bed? From what I just watched, the actual trial is horrendously traumatic."

"Do not fret over me. I shall be fine so long as I can sit. My mind is not troubled by the weakness of my body at this time," the sage said mildly, "but I do have a question for you. I know, in general, what a gene is. It makes up the basic unit of inheritance that a parent passes on traits to their offspring. But it seems far more than that to you. Would you explain it to me?"

"Well, for a first question, that's quite a doozy!" Micah laughed. She looked around and spied a standing slate board that Yennefer had been using to draw incantation plans. "Yen, may I use the board please?" The sorceress nodded, watching with veiled interest.

"Ok," Micah fingered a piece of chalk as she thought. "It's been some time since I taught an introductory genetics class, so forgive me if I'm a little rusty." She launched into the lecture, relishing how it all came back to her as she drew on the board and spoke to her three listeners about cell theory, the nucleus and deoxyribonucleic acids - DNA. She explained Mendel and the Punnett Square and told them how specialized cells called gametes became sperm and egg cells in men and women respectively. She drew charts on the slate next to diagrams of cells and their bodies. She discussed chromosomes and the molecular aspect of sexual reproduction, then moved into more advanced topics of the genetic code and how gene sequences determined the structure of every living organism.

"We knew the basics of inheritance," said Triss, chewing on the tip of a finger, "but we didn't know the carrier of the information."

"So, you think the ability to manipulate magic is, indeed, inherited?" Yennefer drummed her fingertips against her chin, her agile mind skimming across the possibilities.

"I do. I think the traits might even be sex-linked but controlled by multiple sequences on other chromosomes, rendering the full gamut of expression - everything from a completely mundane person all the way to a fully realized witcher or magic user."

"That certainly follows what we've observed in practice," said Triss. "Though I've never thought to connect witchers with that spectrum."

"What do you intend to do with this knowledge?" asked the Aen Saevherne.

Micah shrugged as she sought the words to answer Avallac'h's question. "There aren't many witchers left and the ones who remain don't know how to make more. At some point, if something isn't done, they will be extinct. Maybe that's not such a good thing and I want to ensure their survival."

"You mean to reinstate the trials, then?" Triss's brow screwed into an expression of concern.

"No," Micah stated flatly. "Not after what we just saw. But maybe there is a better way. Something self-sustaining." She looked out the window into the practice yard, her mind whirling with possibilities as she watched the activity below.

* * *

The witchers squared off with each other, running through sword drills with blunted blades. It was a rare opportunity to observe the differences between schools and Vesemir reveled in the chance to observe Manticore and Viper fighting styles. In his youth, there had been witchers of all six schools that roamed the continent and he remembered a time when they would compete in tournaments with each other, to keep skills and knowledge sharp. Now, he and these men were amongst the last of the witchers, a dying breed with no one to pass their secrets to. Everything they were, everything the Wolves had stood for over the centuries was on the verge of extinction and that thought made him feel old and weary.

"Keep your guard up, Eskel! Lambert, dodge. How many times do I have to tell you? Pirouette!" The old man was in his element, driving the witchers to perfect their techniques. A warm, hairy hand crept into his own and he looked down at Betty. She cooed to him and held out her arms, asking to be picked up.

Vesemir swung her into his arms and knew everything had come full circle. If he understood the man on the crystals correctly, mutated chimps had been instrumental in the creation of witchers. Now here she was; the last of her kind dwelling with the last of his. What if Micah could restore that lost knowledge? The Trial of the Grasses was so traumatic, so brutal, so murderous, was it right to revive it? Did the world really still need witchers? Contracts, despite the dearth of professional monster slayers in the world, had become more and more sparse.

"Letho, footwork! You might be big, but you aren't made of bricks. Nice moulinet, Arek, now follow it up with a horizontal strike!"

What if the last conjunction wasn't the last one? There had been others, many others, before the one that brought humanity to this world. What if the next one brought even more monsters. The long dead Robert Ulrich had said it was a time fraught with the struggle for their very survival, so it must have been dire to create a program that murdered seven in ten candidates. Titans. They had been called titans, but Vesemir didn't feel very titanic. He felt tired and sad. Geralt, Lambert, and Eskel were his legacy. If they were to have one of their own, they would have to forge it today, between the future and the past unflinchingly.

"Lambert! Get your guard up. Letho's going to smack you in the face! This isn't a Sunday picnic!" barked the old witcher. Betty sat on his shoulder and chirped her encouragement and Vesemir chuckled. "Arek, spin then and strike! Eskel, try that form Letho showed you, with the short blade in your off hand and the long one in your main. I want to see it in practice!"

The two Blue Stripe commandos joined them in practice, finally shelving their hate for Letho until another time. Vesemir watched Ves as she and Lambert squared off. She was good but held back on her strikes more than she ought as a seasoned soldier. Roche, on the other hand, would have made an exceptional witcher. He had wicked reflexes and didn't appear to be queasy about fighting dirty if he needed to. Survival instincts were a good thing to have out on the Path. "Ves, that's your sword arm, not a dumpling. Raise that elbow, girl. Roche, you're announcing your next strike. Stop fidgeting your feet along the ground like that!"

Even if the trials were a thing of the past, they still had much of value to offer the world. There were more war orphans and abandoned waifs now than there had ever been. It was time to start harvesting from that resource. _'We need young ones to teach,'_ thought the fencing master. _'It's time to bring in the new generation while there's still a chance to salvage something.'_

* * *

Dinner that night was a noisy affair, the witchers told stories about their adventures and the sorceresses discussed the implications of the … what did Micah call them? … videos they had watched. It was more cheer than Lambert had seen in the hall since he was a small lad. He figured the presence of the women lightened things up a bit. Ves and Roche had taken their turn to cook and, for once, it was surprisingly good.

Vernon was a competent soldier and the young witcher could see why Geralt liked the man. Ves was a tasty bit, her piquant face beautiful even with scars from numerous fights. He wouldn't mind a roll with her in his cot, but the girl only had eyes for Roche. Her commander seemed oblivious to her charms other than telling her to close her shirt, however. Lambert was all in favor of her keeping it open. He grinned as he recalled how nicely rounded her breasts were as they sparred earlier in the day.

Eskel watched Triss argue with Yennefer, tapping her points on the fingers of one hand with the index finger of the other. The young Wolf never suspected his scarred brother of having a thing for Merigold. True, she was another tasty bit, but he didn't trust sorceresses, and he didn't want Geralt's leftovers. That didn't seem to matter to Eskel. Surprise, surprise.

Betty extracted herself from Arek and hopped into Lambert's lap. The chimp seemed to like men, albeit there weren't many women around for her to choose from. He looked into her eyes, so different than his own, yet still very much alike and scratched the animal at the back of her neck. She plastered herself to his chest, arching her back and burring with her lips.

"She really likes you, Lambert," said Micah, coming to sit next to him. "Then she always did like the men in the lab and was quite particular in her favorites."

"So, how tough was it for her when she was mutated?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. Micah knew he was testing her.

"Actually, Betty is second generation. She was born like this. As for her parents, we used chemo and radiation therapy to prep them for the mutations" murmured the little geneticist. "We kept them sedated for the most part and gave them sufficient support therapy so that phase of the process was as non-traumatic as possible. What I watched today … the recording of the actual Trials that was developed …" she shuddered, swallowing convulsively. "I really don't blame you for hating me and everything I represent."

"Fuck. I don't hate you. I was just mad." He lounged on his seat as Betty kissed the underside of his chin, nuzzling him contentedly. "So, you could make female witchers if you wanted to, right?"

"Maybe," she was hesitant in her answer, "I would have to do a lot of research and have a team that supported me, a team that was very adept in their magical prowess. I wouldn't want to rush things. We have the luxury of elegance."

"Hmmph," he grumped.

"Arek and I have discussed it at length. He argues that the world should go on without you once the last witcher dies. I think it would be a tragic shame to lose you," she said, scratching the chimp behind the ear. "The monsters may change, but we'll always need witchers." She shrugged. "But I won't reinstate the old way."

"That's something, at least," Lambert grumbled, playing with the flame of a candle on the table, lighting it then extinguishing it in turns. Micah watched his antics for a moment then looked at the bonobo, cocking her head in thought.

"I wonder if we could teach Betty signs," she asked. Lambert's bark of laughter had heads in the hall turning toward them.

"Now that would be fucking priceless!" he choked. "We could send her to Hierarch Hemmelfart with instructions to torch his ass! Burn down half of Novigrad!"

Micah snickered. "She's actually very smart for a chimpanzee, but I'm not sure she has the higher reasoning needed for that. Besides, I wouldn't want to subject her to the church. She's far too special to waste on those morons." There was general agreement with that sentiment as cups of wine were passed amongst the sorceresses and Micah, and vodka laced with white gull shared amongst the witchers. Ves and Roche opted for straight vodka. Packs of cards appeared and a lively if unofficial Gwent tournament started. Lambert ambled over and joined the play, accompanied by his new girl, Betty, for whom he was the butt of many good-natured jibes.


	21. Kozin

**Thank you, Omnigamer, for the editing help!**

 **Thank you, The Pineapple Approves, for the cover picture of Micah and Arek, and for letting me borrow the grumpy old Bear. I promise to feed him well, stoke his pipe and ensure his ale cup is ever full :)**

* * *

Kozin was irritated. The ealderman in front of him was spouting some shite about not having agreed to such a steep sum to get rid of the strigga terrorizing the town. The big witcher from the Bear School reached deep inside himself for the discipline required to avoid grasping the spiny little man by the throat and shaking him. He thought, not for the first time, that he should start requiring his customers to sign contracts in duplicate before he would take a job.

"Ealderman Janners," Kozin interrupted in his best I-really-want-to-kill-you-but-I-won't voice, his Skellige accent pushing its way to the fore. "We agreed on three hundred orens to kill the strigga. Ye agreed, I agreed, we drank on it. In my mind, that means we had a deal."

"Well, ah, see," the ealderman wheedled and Kozin pinched the bridge of his nose, right between his eyes, "we don't HAVE three hundred orens. We have one hundred orens." He looked doleful and sheepish. Kozin hated that combination of looks so he just glared back, waiting for the offer of bartered goods.

"Would ye take a few barrels of pickled calves feet, a cask of salt and two demijohns of wine?" Janners looked downright hopeful, good cheer radiating from his too-thin face.

The big Bear glared at the ceiling and mentally calculated what those commodities would cost at the market square, then countered "Give me twenty pounds of dried beef, ten pounds of salted pork and three demijohns of oil to boot and I'll take your offer."

He really didn't mind bartering for his services; he just preferred those things be spelled out during initial negotiations. At least they weren't stiffing him entirely and Kozin breathed a sigh of relief when Janners enthusiastically agreed. The little ealderman clapped his hands, handed over the purse of golden orens and stepped sprightly out of his house, shouting for the goods to be delivered right away!

August was swiftly giving way to September, prompting Kozin to hurry preparations for wintering over. He wanted to settle into the mining shack he had found in the mountains earlier in the season before the snows started to fly. There wasn't much to it, really; just an old one room cabin backed into a niche in the mountainside next to a shallow mine shaft. The remains of a cooking fire and a flask hinting of vodka and cherries told him the hut had been used within the last year, but there were no signs of more recent occupation. The witcher hoped they wouldn't come back while he was in residence. He didn't fancy spending his winter amongst these Nordlings and their infernal Flaming priests with their talk of pyres and pikes for anyone they didn't like. Isolation in the mountains might make for a lonely off-season but it was better than immolation by the fucking Church. His life was worth more than easy access to a well-stocked bar and willing wenches to bed. Kozin shrugged as he considered his options. Maybe he would get really lucky and there would be a nymph in the woods willing to tryst with a grumpy old Bear through the cold months. A bored witcher is a randy witcher, as Andryk used to tell him when they were young.

He mounted up after loading his horse and rode toward the Blue Mountains, leaving what passed for civilization behind and enjoying the warm sunshine mingled with the sharp tang of fall floating in the air. Peasants mowed wheat in the fields, their harvesting songs providing an even tempo for their swinging scythes. Older children followed behind the scythers and collected bundles of stalks that they stood up and tied together while the very youngest toddled along collecting the small heads that came off the sheaves, putting them in sacks hung about their fronts. The fresh cut aroma of ripened wheat saturated the air, summoning birds of all varieties to feast on the leftovers.

A light breeze played in his full, shaggy beard, rattling the beads adorning two narrow braids skimming his cheeks. His long, dark hair would have hung to his shoulders if weren't bound in a topknot at the back of his head, revealing the shorn strip of his lower skull and three parallel scars tracing vertical lines from mid-cranium down his neck. The big witcher turned his face up to the sunshine and just reveled in the moment, breathing deeply and glad that no one was calling ...

"Master Witcher! Master Witcher!" The voice shattered the peaceful day and was accompanied by an older man limping as fast as his bowed legs could carry him. "Master Witcher!" the man gasped, catching up to the halted horse, hands on knees as he chased his runaway breath. Kozin dismounted and fiddled with the bridle to give the man some time, turning only when the wheezing eased. The farmer looked the witcher in the eye. Surprising. Most people wouldn't. "We needs yer help, Master Witcher. Needs it bad. We has a wraith in the far field and ain't been able to harvest it. Please, Master Witcher, will ye help us?"

"I don't work for free," he stated baldly.

"Oh no, Master witcher. We took up a collection. We haven't much, but we can throw in some goods on top of it if ye prefer."

They dickered on compensation and came to an agreement. Tanned leather, armor rings, and scales along with repair to his armorer's tools, some new boots, two full bags of grain, a bear skin suitable for a cold winter, a milk goat, and a pack mule to carry his belongings were included with the thirty orens the peasants had collected. In addition, they would feed and shelter him and his horse for the night. These folks seemed far more prosperous than the people back in the village he had left hours ago, or else they appreciated the worth of a witcher better.

A tiny hamlet was home for the farmers, boasting five neat huts gathered about a central well with a stable byre suitable for his horse and tack off to the side. A blushing young maid came to care for the beast while Kozin prepared for his initial investigation. The girl was pretty, of course, and petite, of course, with long chestnut locks that fell to a trim waist he could span with one hand. Her eyes were a soft brown in her oval face and she sported an adorably pert nose. She was impossibly young. They all were these days, with their soulful eyes and kissable noses. Even the ones in the brothels. He sighed, running a hand down his sun-beaten face. When had he gotten so old? As time went on he preferred well-set widows entirely finished with youthful idealism. They seldom got romantic notions, savored their independent lives and enjoyed the mutual slaking of lust without any kind of entrapping commitment. There were plenty around now, considering a decade of constant warfare that had ravaged through the North.

He shrugged his wide shoulders back, cracked his neck and, hiding behind a facade of cold professionalism, began his questioning.

"What do they call ye, lass?" he asked, inspecting a tangle of straw and keeping a polite distance from the girl.

"Me name's Matilda, sir, but everyone just calls me Matty."

"And what do you know of this wraith, Matty?"

"She's terrible fierce, she is sir," the young lady peered at the witcher with her melted chocolate eyes. "Appears when the sun is highest then leaves on a wail when evening is nigh,"

"Noonwraith," grunted the Bear, "You know when she first appeared?"

"About three weeks past, sir."

"Ahh." He nodded. "Any ladies go missing from hereabouts recently? Heard of any women dying nearby?"

"No, no I haven't. Mayhap Dandy Brolla would know. She's the wise woman that tends to the sick and helps the pregnant women birth their babies." Kozin got directions to Dandy Brolla's hut and strode away from the chit, knowing in his bones it was going to be a long winter without a willing woman who had a phobia to commitment. He shook himself and got down to business.

"There was a girl, some years past. Died to bandits on the way to her beloved," the old woman sang as she offered the big man tea and biscuits in her tiny home. "She were on her way her wedding, she was."

"How long ago was this?" Kozin inquired, stroking his beard in thought.

"T'wer ten years past, now," said Brolla, "poor child was found ravaged with the remains of her guards scattered about. There was naught to be done but bury the bodies and send word to her betrothed of the slaughter."

"She only appeared three weeks ago?" he kept his query neutral, watching thoughts slide over the old woman's face.

"Nay, she's been appearing regular like since that summer." Brolla refilled his empty cup and set a fresh biscuit on his plate. "Every year at the end of August till just after Yule."

"Hmph," grumped the Bear. "Why, all of a sudden, is she a problem? Why not hire a witcher long before now?"

"Well, see, we usually start harvesting at the beginning of August with that field, so it's done by the time she shows up," replied Brolla, "but this year, for one reason and another, a dead pig, some gout, what have you, the workers haven't gotten to it." The wise woman tilted her head at the witcher, then sighed. "We simply stayed out of her way. Witchers don't come cheap, sonny, and we didn't see a need to hire one till now." She sat across from him with her own tea steaming in an earthenware mug and continued in a very quiet voice, "isn't ten years long enough for a tortured soul to be bound to the earth? Won't ye do something to free her so she might actually rest?"

"Aye, I've already agreed to help," grumbled the big Bear as he stood and took his leave of the little old lady. Kozin checked the angle of the sun as he walked out of the hut. He would go take a look now, knowing all he could do this afternoon was send her back to the nether till tomorrow. If at all possible, the witcher intended to avoid a fight until he knew what tethered her to the prime material plane. Once he found her anchor, he could lift the curse and release her from this world.

The bear settled at the well in the center of the hamlet and pulled out his customized, silver Zweihänder and started oiling and sharpening the blade. She was a dream of balance and beauty, taking a wicked edge with finely tooled double fullers up the center that were laid with crimson elder runes.

Grandmaster Undvar's words came back to him, as they always did when he was preparing for a fight. "Always treat your blades with respect, lad. They are like a woman, requiring stroking and rubbing with loverly care. Do that and they will purr for you."

Kozin's blades were his life and he bestowed more affection on them than he ever had on any woman. As he oiled the sword he felt eyes on him and looked up, catching Matty gazing with rapt attention at his ministrations. With a weary sort of amusement, he noticed that her eyes had grown heavy-lidded and she was starting to pant. Only supreme self-control kept his lips from twitching into a grin, but he did raise one eyebrow. For some reason, taking care of his weapons brought all the girls to the yard. He was not without his own sense of humor, however, and firmly thrust his weapon back in its sheath with a satisfying thump that caused the girl to jump and then blush a fiery red.

'That should keep her warm all winter' he thought to himself with an evil grunt he wouldn't allow to turn into a snicker. He would tell Oslan …. No. He caught himself mid-thought. It had been a long while since he had made that slip, even in the privacy of his own mind. He must be getting soft. He pulled his head out of his arse, stood up and stretched. Time to go see what this noon wraith was all about.

* * *

"Papa, where's mama?" Greta asked in her piping voice as she swayed with the horse's even gait. The man holding her in front of him on the saddle didn't answer, but her brother did. He was on his own horse because he was a big lad and papa said it was time he learned to ride and care for his own mount.

"Mama has gone to the Eternal Fire, Greta, and we will see her again when we go there too." Bartholomew Jasper Karadin said with solemn pride, sitting straight in the saddle and not sawing on the reins.

"Are we going there now?" asked the little girl, squirming to look up at the gaunt man behind her. She was still frightened of him. Oh, she knew he was her papa, but he looked so fierce with his face all ragged like that, and the swords sticking over his shoulder. Not at all like the man she loved most in all the world.

"No, Greta. We can't go till the fire calls us to enter its light. You know that from your lessons." His voice was raw and wounded. He didn't even SOUND like her papa. She was sad and scared with this stranger who wasn't really a stranger. Why couldn't they go back home? They had been riding and riding for days on end. And they never took the road. She simply couldn't understand it and she started to cry. Her papa gathered her close against him and shushed her quietly, hugging her as he guided the horse with his other hand.

"We'll stop for the night in few hours, Greta. Then we'll have something to eat and you can tell me a story, ok?" She looked up into his face and thought he might be crying too, and that made her feel a little better for some reason. She reached up a hand and patted his battered cheek, then nodded her little head solemnly.


	22. Snow and Stars

**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**

 **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

 **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**

* * *

The first snow of the season drifted lazily into the practice yard as Micah stood, wooden sword in hand, struggling to complete the drill at the tempo Vesemir had set for her. Her arms ached and she was breathing hard.

"Again!" he barked, giving her no quarter. "Block, strike, parry, pirouette, lunge, block, strike!"

She attempted the sequence again, but dropped the sword, huffing her breath up her face to blow away a strand of hair, feeling utterly foolish. Give her a petri dish and some chemicals and she could bake a witcher, but doubted greatly if she would ever BE one. She picked up the sword again, stood en guard, and started the drill one more time. Block, strike, parry, pirouette, lunge, block, strike! She was panting and sweating despite the frost in the air and she knew she would be hurting tonight.

"Good, that's it. Again!" said her tormentor, unrelenting as he pushed her. "Again, faster!"

Micah dropped the sword again, this time flinging it on the pirouette. She dropped on her butt and stuck her head into her hands, laughing. "I might do ok if I throw my sword at them!" The old witcher just laughed and told her to get up and keep going.

Wearily she climbed to her feet and retrieved the wooden practice sword, preparing to start the drill over as she assumed the en guard position. Vesemir dropped a hand on her shoulder and he indicated it was time to move on to a new sequence.

"You're doing well, Micah," intoned the old witcher. "Better than many young witchers I've trained in my time. Everyone in this yard was raised to fight, with the possible exception of Ves. It takes time and dedication to get good at it. Keep practicing. Now, I want to show you this move again and you are to practice this, slowly at first until you can do it without thinking." He took a forward stance holding the blade in the Ox position, his right forearm over his head and vertical to the ground with his left hand gripping the pommel so his fingers just brushed the inside of his right elbow. He moved slowly, so she could see what he did, stepping forward onto his left foot, then pivoting around and landing with his right foot behind him in a back stance. He swung the sword as he moved into a horizontal slice and then brought it over his head in an arc and down into a vertical slice. She nodded and took up the stance, slowly walking through each movement several times until she got the rhythm of it.

"Any time you can get behind your opponent and strike them in the back, you have the advantage," lectured Vesemir. "We aren't knights and we don't duel for honor points. This is about survival and living to see another day."

"I'd be happy to be reasonably competent," groused the small woman, slowly moving through the form once again. Vesemir was a very good teacher, Micah thought. He needed new students to keep him young. Students who had some possibility of competence!

"Good Micah. Again! Again! OX, pirouette, slash, twirl slash! That's it, girl. Again!" Vesemir coached over and over till was twirling the wooden practice sword to his liking. They worked for another hour before Micah just couldn't hold the sword up any longer. Her arms ached and she was shaky, but she had survived and not made a spectacular fool of herself.  
"I never considered myself a swordswoman till now, Vesemir. I think you could teach a rock to fight well!" she laughed.

"Or a rock troll," grinned Arek, joining them, swooping Micah up one handed and spinning her around while she shrieked with laughter. "How did your first lesson go, love?"

Micah sparkled up at her lover, laying a hand on his arm as she watched the others file back to the keep to lunch on bread and cheese. It was Lambert's turn to prepare the mid-day meal and aptitude for ruining even simple dishes was a running joke. Everyone was grateful that he stuck to such simple fare and nothing was charred beyond edibility.  
"I think I'm much better in the lab!" Micah grimaced. "But I'll be out here again tomorrow. I might not be able to move, but I'll be here."

"First signs, now swords," sighed the Manticore in mock distress. "I'm going to be out of a job if the old man keeps this up,"

Vesemir rubbed his chin, feeling younger than he had since Ciri had been his student. "Micah has some aptitude," he said, tipping his head as a thought struck him. "You know, when we've routed the Wild Hunt and settled things with the Witch Hunters, we should bring some kids here. Gods know there's enough orphans needing a home, and there's worse fates for them than learning our ways. The trials are in the past, but we have a lot that's worth preserving and propagating. We'll only die if we refuse to grow."

"Not a bad plan, Vesemir. I think if anyone could do it, it would be the Wolf School. You still have four left. The cats are routed and spread to the wind. Manticore, Bear, and Viper … when Kozin, Letho and I go, we'll be extinct like the Griffons."

"Could always call this home, you know," replied Vesemir slowly, looking around at the shabby castle. "Could forge something new here and rebuild."

Arek nodded, considering Vesemir's invitation. "Would be nice to have someplace to call home again," smiled the large Manticore, watching Ves and Roche trail along behind everyone else on the way to the keep. "Let's get some lunch before that lot eats it all." The three walked away from the practice yard, kicking the little drifts of frost accumulated in patches of shadow, enjoying the smell of autumn in the air and the closed gray sky above them. August was nearly over.

* * *

Bellville March stood glaring down at his desk. His face was freshly stitched together and it hurt abominably. The guard by the door stood quietly at attention and tried not to jump every time his commander thumped the handle of his knout on the work surface or swore through his teeth about 'Fire be damned witchers evaporating into thin air'. Another witch hunter came into the room and saluted his commander.

"Well? Any news? Has the dog and his whelps been found yet?"

"No, sir. There's no sign of them. We don't even know how he got out of the dungeon, let alone back to his house to spirit the children and their grandmother away."

"What the hell use are you to me, then?" Tap, tap, tap went the knout.

"We think we may know where the grandmother went, but she might be more trouble to retrieve than she's worth. Our sources say she is on the way to White Orchard where she has a friend or possibly a sister to take her in."

"The grandmother is NOT worth our time," March murmured, looking at the map of the northern kingdoms spread before him. His face lighted as realization struck him. "That ash blighted witcher gave us the solution, though. Get a force together. We move into Kaedwen in two weeks. Get trackers, the best available, and send them up the Gwenlech. I'll request an audience with King Radovid for support. I know he harbors little love for witchers and the foul sorceresses they favor. I want Kaer Morhen in our hands and the heads of every witcher and witch there on pikes by the first of October."

"One month, sir? I'm not sure we can round up a large enough force at such short notice. Our people are spread thin throughout the north." said the subordinate hunter.

"Then you better start recruiting more, hadn't you?" The suggestion was made quietly, but the threat was implicit as it echoed off the stone walls of the Witch Hunters' office on Temple Mount.

* * *

The day sped toward evening at Kaer Morhen, witnessing the migration of people through the yards and into the hall as sunset painted the sky in pinks and purples, ushering in another chilly night. Everyone gathered in the great hall, glad for the warmth of a cheery fire and noisy company. Arek and Letho strained in an impromptu arm wrestling match as Triss Merigold refereed. Lambert and Zoltan Chivay were yelling encouragement to their respective champions while Vernon Roche and Vesemir made a private bet. Eskel leaned broodingly against the wall pretending to watch the wrestling match though his hooded, golden eyes were trained on the auburn haired sorceress.

Ves retreated from the testosterone laden table to sit briefly with Yen, Micah, and Avallac'h though she didn't belong here, either. Her eyes strayed to her commanding officer, standing in easy camaraderie with the ancient witcher. Roche fit in easily here, but then, he was comfortable anywhere. She observed him surreptitiously from under the fringe of her blond hair and wondered if he would always treat her like a wayward child. She had been barely more than a girl when he found her, a captive of a Scoia'tael commando. Ves's heart had been his since that blood-soaked night when he strode into their camp, murder in his eyes. She remembered how gentle his hands had been when he released her from her bindings. Roche had known what they did to her but never allowed her to sink under the memories. Instead, he welcomed her into the Blue Stripes and ensured his men treated her respectfully, as an equal. He treated her just as he did all his soldiers, demanding the last devotion of spirit as they fought the Scoia'tael in defense of Temeria. Never once had he looked at her as though he found her desirable, even when she let her shirt gape open for his benefit. How might things be once the war was over? Would Vernon spare her a second glance? Sighing, Ves focused her attention back on the conversation flowing around her.

Micah was talking about her 'genetics' again, going on and on about something called chroma … chromast … what ever they were called. Avallac'h was lecturing about Lara Doren and the Adept gene. It was all so confusing. Ves was a woman of action. Put a sword in her hand, let her string a bow, point her toward her enemy and let her fly. She would return with their heads, singing a bawdy marching song along the way as she flicked blood off her hands. This discussion was tedious in the extreme.

Where had that chimp had got off to? Ves looked for the hairy little beast. Betty was always hanging on Arek, Lambert or Vesemir. She had tried to latch on to Roche as well, but he always put her off with a head pat and strode away, leaving her broken hearted. Ves could relate. There she was! Vesemir hoisted the animal up in his arms where she nibbled at his ear as he and Roche continued to chat. In the last week, the chimp had spent time with every man in the place, including the Aen Saevherne, but her clear preference was for the old witcher. She even stole into his room at night and slept at the foot of his bed. Lambert teased the old man mercilessly, but Vesemir just smiled, sharing apples and snuggles with the affectionate creature.

Ves observed Eskel quietly steal from the dining hall and head up the back stairs. He had been moody all day, short-tempered and impatient. Having only known the scarred man for a few weeks, the girl couldn't say if his behavior was out of character or not. Maybe he was just annoyed because Micah had been pestering everyone for specimens; cheek swabs, hair plugs, and vials of blood sat in the tiny doctor's lab alongside little jars the doctor had given only to the men. Ves was amazed she didn't want a sample of shite as well. She scratched the small puncture on the inside of her left forearm. Yes, she had given the strange woman a go at her own bodily fluids, though she wasn't sure why. For being so pushy, Micah was actually quite a mild and unexceptional person.

Ves shrugged to herself and left the little group of intellectuals, heading outside to gasp in the cold, Blue Mountain air. She chuckled to herself. That would be quite the slogan if she had money to buy a mountain fortress and turn it into a vacation spot for the spoiled rich. She strolled along the parapets of the lower skirt wall, letting herself dream. She usually avoided thinking about the future because it was so uncertain. The life of a Blue Stripe meant she could never be sure she would see another sunrise. Climbing atop a merlon over the gatehouse, the girl looked down the valley to the south where the earlier snow had collected in pockets, but it was clear and cold now, the overcast skies spit out their last snowflake and cleared away to reveal the stars before supper had been served. The snow wouldn't stick around. It was only the very end of August, after all. Tomorrow would be the first of September. The witchers said come October, Kaer Morhen and its valley would be socked in and inaccessible by mundane means till the beginning of April.

"Ves," came that sharp, commanding voice she loved and hated at the same time, for the same reasons. "What are you doing up there?"

"I'm looking at the valley, Roche, and enjoying the stars."

He snorted, "Is it such a fine view from up there then? You should come down before you catch your death." She rolled her eyes because she knew he couldn't see her. "And don't roll your eyes at me."

She pulled her knees up and stuck her chin on top of them, saying, "If you want me down so much, come up and get me." She was surprised when he scrambled up the dressed stone and settled close beside her, grinning in the patched moonlight. She could smell vodka on his breath and realized he was foxed. Those witchers were corrupting the good commander, not that he was any kind of goody two shoes. He was one of the most ruthless men she had ever met. But his heart was loyal to the people and the causes he championed. She would follow him through hell and back twice if he asked her to. He sat with his hand so enticingly close to her hip that she could feel waves of heat rolling off him.

Relaxed and at ease, Roche tipped his face toward the sky, making shadows of the angled planes of his face. She leaned ever so subtly toward him.

"What do you make of all this? These witchers and the Wild Hunt?" she asked quietly.

"I really don't know, Ves." Roche's voice was low, thoughtful. "Geralt has always been there when I needed something. It was my turn to return the favor. I used to think the Wild Hunt was just a fairy tale to frighten children into eating their cabbage, but to hear them all talk, it's a threat that makes Nilfgaard and Redania look like taproom bullies." He put an arm around her shoulder and she leaned in a little bit more, surprised at the unaccustomed gesture. She expected him to do what he always did - withdraw, give her a pep talk and then stride away. In all the time she had known him, he had never put his arm around her. Hope flared in her heart, though she tried to hush it still. The man sighed as he continued, "It's easy to forget about the war here," he rumbled quietly,

"Kaer Morhen is so completely shut off from the rest of the world. Makes me wonder what will come once the war ends. Where we'll be," Ves mused, sinking deeper into his warm embrace. Roche turned his face and rested his chin on top of her head, smoothing his hand up and down her arm. He was killing her! Every touch sent a lightning tingle through her and Ves wanted to throw her arms around his neck and kiss him till he loved her back. She sighed, letting her head drop to his shoulder, letting his warmth seep into her.

"Ves," he said, his voice a rough whisper, and she looked up at him. He cupped her chin in his hand as he kissed her then, slow, gentle, just a sweet meeting of the lips. Then he pressed a kiss to her forehead and pulled her to rest against his chest once more and his voice rumbled through her. "I can't always do what I want. I can't compromise my ability to lead and I can't compromise my best soldiers for my own desires. Know this. The war will end soon and I've already made plans for how that will affect me. How it will affect us. If you can be patient and not hare off to get yourself killed, I'll show you what I mean when the time comes." They sat there with the stars winking down on them, he with his arm pulling her close, her head under his chin and his lips in her hair. Both afraid to hope for a future that was yet so uncertain.


	23. Bread, Salt and Wine

Kozin took a deep breath of the mountain air and dismounted his horse. FINALLY, he was at his retreat, his wintering hole in the ground. It had taken him long enough to get here. But it was still daylight and early afternoon. He had time to unpack and get settled before the night descended. Dealing with the wraith had been more trouble than he expected. He shook his head and thought back three days. If his mates were still alive, they would never let him live it down.

* * *

That first day he went to the field and found her, fluttering near the road as if she were looking for something or someone. Most wraiths are anchored to the physical plane, either by some object that held great meaning to them in life, by a person who still lives, or by some great tragedy. He guessed it was two out of the three. He snuck up on her haunting radius, waiting till she had flittered to the other end of it, then he looked around.

Carefully, keeping as far from her in her circuitous route as he could, he cased the area, looking for anything that might give him a clue, anything that would help him dispel her that much faster. If it was here, it wasn't on the outside of her circle. He made a complete circuit and was no closer to the solution. He decided to wait and watch her till the sun kissed the earth. When she dematerialized, he would be able to do a more thorough search. He had just settled down in a clump of trees a little beyond her range when he heard the light tread of a woman, or a girl, coming through the field. He slowed his breathing and watched, ready to draw his greatsword if need be.

It was the girl from the hamlet, the one who had cared for his horse. She stopped right outside the wraith's circle and sat down, laying out a kerchief with some bread and cheese. The wraith stopped its frenetic pacing or floating, whatever they did. He hadn't ever seen one do THIS before though; it settled down to the ground as though it was sitting. Try as he might, he couldn't tell if the girl was talking to the wraith or what she might be saying. What connection did they have? The child would have been what? Five? Six? When the wraith's human form had been murdered? Far too old to have been a child carried by the girl who was slain. He continued to watch till the wraith departed in a puff of light and smoke, then he stealthily followed the maiden back to the hamlet, still no wiser than he had been two hours ago. He followed her to her house, waited for her to go inside then approached the door and knocked quietly. He didn't want to scare the occupants.

"Yes?" asked the old man who had hired him, peeking out with one eye through the door, cracked open just an inch.

"May I come in, please? I have some questions about the wraith."

"Yes, yes, of course. Never let it be said old Fleming hasn't any manners," he grumbled. "Matty, get the man some bread, cheese, and ale. He's earning his pay and we will not deny bread nor salt on our threshold." Kozin stepped into the tiny room and took the proffered seat at the small table. He looked at the maid who blushed as she set fare before him.

"How long have you been visiting the wraith, Matty?" he asked casually as he took a bite of the cheese and washed it down with some ale. She looked at him in panic as the old man gaped in shock.

"Is what the Master Witcher here says true, girl? Why would you do such a thing?"

She looked down at her toes, chewing her bottom lip. "Yes, papa. I go and talk with her. She's lonely. Wishes for a little food and is confused why her intended won't marry her yet."

Kozin choked. "You TALK to her? Matty, wraiths can't talk. They are wailing spirits and very dangerous."

"Sometimes, she's like that. But when I bring food and drink for her, when I talk to her, she isn't. She becomes like the lady she was in life and talks to me."

"How long has this been going on?" questioned the witcher.

"I don't know, maybe a year. I was in the field, chasing after Sasha's kitten, who had gotten away from her, and I stumbled. It was very near noon, but we hadn't yet seen the lady that year. The field was already harvested. I was trying lure the kitten to me with a bit of cheese when she appeared. She was terrible at first but then she softened and became like she had been in life, only …"

"Only what, go on," pushed Kozin softly.

"Only I could see right through her. She was so lovely. Golden hair flowing to her waist," sighed Matty wistfully. "I can't really make out the color of her eyes. They aren't dark. Maybe gray? I don't know, but she is so sad waiting for her wedding day. Often times she asks where her fiance is and where the wedding guests are. It near to breaks my heart."

"You were talking to her this afternoon. What did you say to her?" He watched her intently, listening to her pulse thud through her veins.

"I told her about you and she said maybe the curse could be lifted. She knows, you see. She knows she is trapped here, but she must wait for her betrothed and the wedding must be performed."

"Has she told you who her betrothed is? Who SHE is?"

"Why yes. His name was Sir Gregory Rose. He was a squire. She is … was ...Ylanda Von Cleave" Her father tapped his chin with a gnarled finger.

"Sir Gregory died at the Battle of Brenna four years ago," Fleming murmured. "Was very tragic. Last son of the house and he died without issue. The estate has decayed into ruin."

"Where?" asked Kozin. Perhaps if he brought the wraith some artifact that was personal to Sir Gregory …

"Not far from here. Toward the foot of the mountains."

"Matty, I have one more question for you, lass. When I asked you about the wraith earlier today, why didn't you tell me the truth then?" Kozin wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose at that moment but kept his hand still. He didn't want to scare the chit.

"If anyone knew what I had been doing, that I could speak with spirits, the Eternal Fire Church …" she began, looking fearfully at her papa. Kozin also looked at the old man, who had bowed his head.

"If anyone would have seen my Matty girl cavorting with spirits, or heard her talk about it at the community well, she would be dragged before the Witch Hunters and likely burned at the stake," breathed the father, his eyes fearful. "The church is grievous fierce and they take anyone who even has a hint of magic or the fey about them."

"Do you often speak with spirits, lass?" The witchers brows were drawn together in thought, giving him a fearsome aspect.

"N-no, well not normally. Sometimes, like on the solstice or equinox, I can hear them in the graveyard. But Ylanda is the only one I've actually seen or talked to."

He nodded, thinking deeply. "No matter now. Is there anything else I should know? Anything at all? Have you found anything that belongs to her, jewelry or trinket that she might be attached to?" He looked at the girl and her father. Both shook their heads. "Alright. If I can leave my goods here, I'll be back by early morning and I will need to rest before we attempt to dispel whatever curse holds Ylanda here."

* * *

The estate wasn't hard to find, nor did it present any ghostly challenges as Kozin half feared it would. There was a family crypt cut back into the hillside behind the house where he found Sir Gregory, laid to rest, with his long sword laid over him in the carved sarcophagus. On one skeletal finger was a ring bearing the family crest.

The witcher slipped the signet from the corpse's hand and grumbled in the gloom, "Sorry for disturbing you, old man. But your bride is fretful and I'd like to send her peacefully to your arms in the hereafter if you don't mind." He sealed Sir Gregory into his tomb once again before making haste back to the little hamlet, considering his next step as he traveled.

The big Bear crawled into the bed the ealderman provided for him, hoping for a few hours of restful sleep. He dreamed of shadowed eyes and golden hair, skin as soft as a still ocean in summer, lips honey sweet kissing him till he burned. Her hands were like a flame against his bare skin, igniting his lust just as he remembered when they had been together.

"Cay," he mumbled, breathing in a phantasm of her scent, the mellow tang of vanilla, as he awakened, realizing it was just a dream. His beanna. He missed her still, but he was too twisted up inside to love her like she deserved. He had let her go for her own good. Kozin scrubbed at his face with his hands and got up to find the old man and his daughter. They would have a wedding today.

* * *

Winter could be scented on the air this close to the foothills of the Blue Mountains. August was dying though it was still warm, that crisp tingle remained on the palate after taking a deep breath. Kozin could hear it too, as the birds gathered in swooping flocks for their southern migration, calling to each other in a grand symphony of chaos. The day lacked two hours till noon. The old man, Matty, and the witcher stood at the little grove of trees near the field. Everyone else in the hamlet had been warned to stay well away from the wraith's haunt this day to allow the witcher to do his work. Ealderman Fleming was authorized to perform weddings and speak at funerals by the kingdom of Kaedwen.

"It's not like we're so close to anyone that we can just trot to 'em when babies need dedicatin' or folks need buryin' or couples need marryin'." He had explained when Kozin had wondered at such a tiny, unnamed hamlet actually needing its own appointed official.

The plan was for Kozin to lay bread and salt and a little wine for the wraith then Fleming would perform a marriage with the groom in absentia, the witcher standing in for Sir Gregory, and Matty being the witness. The ealderman and his daughter talked quietly some distance away until the sun was nearly at its zenith while Kozin sat in deep meditation. His potions and blade were prepared just in case, but the Bear hoped he wouldn't need them. Slowing his breathing and his heart rate, he reviewed the plan in his mind, dredging up all he knew about wraiths and curses. 'In through the nose, out through the mouth, relax the muscles, drive the heartbeat slower. Thirty beats per minute.' His golden cat eyes snapped open immediately when a small hand touched his shoulder. It was time.

Kozin moved to the very edge of the wraith's haunt and laid out the traditional bread, salt, and wine carefully. Sir Gregory's signet ring dug a groove in his hand as he waited. The sun reached its peak and he felt the thrum of negative energy as Lady Ylanda appeared, not as a hideous and skeletal wraith, but as a comely young woman who'd had all the world before her when she met her untimely end.

"Gregory?" she spoke as she knelt before him, all ashimmer, "Is that you, my love? Have you finally come to make me your wife?"

"Lady Ylanda, I'm a witcher. I am afraid that Sir Gregory sleeps now in death and waits for you," said Kozin.

"No, no! How could you roast me so, Gregory! How could you be so cruel! I have waited for you these many years and finally, you have come. Why did it take so long?" Kozin heard her words in his head more than he did in his ears.

"I speak the truth, Lady Ylanda. Your betrothed died in battle, six years after you passed. He waits for you now but has sent me to be his representative. He is a groom in absentia and I will stand in for him. You will be married to him in truth and in deed."

"Aaaaaarrrrrrraaaiiiiiiiieeeee!" The scream was piercing and her form started to compress into the horrid visage wraiths usually present to the world. Kozin thought fast. "OK OK, I'm Gregory! I'm here to marry you if you will have me!" he went down on one knee, holding out the signet to the disturbed spirit.

She wavered there between her ghostly apparition and her skeletal manifestation as if she didn't quite know what to do. The witcher dug deep to find the lover-like words that would calm her, soothe her enough for them to perform the ritual and send her on her way. "Ylanda, my love, my dearest! Forgive me, sweetness! My joke wasn't funny and I am unworthy of you!"

It worked! Ylanda shimmered again to her ghostly visage and turned to him, her face in a pout. "No, that was NOT funny, not on our wedding day! You claim to love me, yet play such a cruel jest. Now, the guests have arrived." She nodded at Matty, then indicated the ealderman, "And the officiant is here to bind us for all eternity. Leave the pranks behind and let us be joined!" She was regal before him, and the witcher sighed. Then Kozin stood by her as the old man and his daughter took their places. All told, it was a lovely ceremony, with the ealderman breaking the bread dipping it in the salt and then sprinkling it with wine. Kozin figured it was as close to matrimony as he ever wanted to get. He pledged his troth to the Lady Ylanda, and she, in turn, pledged her troth to Sir Gregory, believing her true beloved stood next to her now.

Kozin was just about to slip the ring on her ghostly finger when the witcher's hackles rose. Another shift in dark energy swept through the field as a man, as heavy and tall as the big Bear, gathered into the material plane. Kozin backed up and let the apparition take his place beside the ghostly form of the lady. Fleming licked his lips, looking pleadingly at the witcher. Kozin nodded for the old man to go through the whole ceremony again. As the two spirits spoke their vows, they gradually became more corporeal until they were fully materialized. They were radiant! They weren't ghastly wraiths or monsters, but a blushing bride and her handsome groom. When the ceremony reached the point of placing the ring on Ylanda's finger, Kozin handed Sir Gregory the signet ring. Just as the old man pronounced them man and wife, the pair dematerialized in a glitter of light and smoke. Matty took in a shuddering breath and wiped the tears at her lashes.

"Ye two get on back to your hut and let your neighbors know it's safe now. She's gone for good. I'll be back in a while to collect me goods and me pay." The man and his daughter nodded and started to set off. "I would suggest ye not be telling your neighbors of what we did here today." His warning was dark and he saw the girl shudder, pulling closer to her father.

They walked away and the big witcher knelt in the center of the wraith's former haunting circle, settling in for a good meditation before he followed them. He sat there until the sun was boiling away wisps of cloud at the horizon when he felt that energy shift again, his medallion vibrating on his chest.

"Thank you, Witcher, for calling me to retrieve my bride." The words could just have been the wind as it chuckled through the wheat stalks. Kozin saw nothing but heard the delicate tinkle of metal striking a stone in front of him. The energy faded and his bear head pendant stilled. There, before him, just by his right knee, was a key the likes of which someone might use on a chest to hide their treasures. He picked it up and examined it, then put it in a pouch on his belt. He hadn't expected anything or even desired anything more than what he was being paid for the contract. He had only wanted to be alone to contemplate what happened, how there could be love like this that would reunite lovers long dead, pull them out of their very graves. Did love have the power to conquer darkness? He didn't know. Didn't know if there was enough love in all the realms to banish the darkness in his soul. He heaved to his feet and returned to the hamlet, no closer to the answer his heart cried for. He told his heart to ploughing shut up.

* * *

Shaking his head at the memory, the big Bear witcher finished getting his camp set up. His mare, the donkey, and the goat were installed in a lean to filled with fresh hay and Kozin was just about to pop the seal on one of the demijohns of wine when he heard the sound of mounted and armed men moving through the forest toward him. They were a little way off and that gave him enough time to choose the venom to oil his sword with and the potions he attached to his bandolier.

They came into his clearing, a ploughing cavalcade of witch hunters, making a racket and trampling things up. He glared up at them from where he sat on a stump, rubbing a soft piece of doe hide along the bluish black length of his steel long sword. Like her silver companion, this sword was custom made with star metal. The hilt was as long as his forearm and the pommel was made to be cupped in his palm like a virgin's breast. She winked at the intruders as Kozin slowly moved the skin along the surface of the blade, knowing the edge was keen and thirsty.

For a handful of moments, the hunters just stared back at him, watching the hypnotic motion of his hands. Then the hunter in the lead dismounted his horse, gave the order for the rest of the company to follow and looked back at the witcher, an evil grin splitting his piggish face.

Kozin stood. "Well, lads, looks like it's time to dance." purred the witcher tonelessly, keeping his face and voice utterly devoid of emotion. He whirled the blade around him as if it were a ribbon of blackened light, then stood en guard at Ox, and waited.


	24. What a Witcher Leaves Behind

**Thank you omniGamer101 for all your help with edits!**

 **Thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah!**

 **Thank you to all my readers! If you like the story, please leave a review.**

* * *

Eskel gazed at the stars from his vantage point on the highest battlements of the keep and lounged against the square rise of a merlon. He raised a demijohn to his lips, toasting the first of September with his customary cherry vodka distilled specially in the mountain reaches of Povis. Every year for the past nine, the scarred man secured enough to last through this one month. Recollection of another time, another place, overwhelmed him for a moment. The sound of a harbor bell, the heady aroma of salt air mingled with rotting fish, and the texture of a rough wooden door jamb splintering into his palm drilled through him. He saw, once again, the girl's shrouded form tossed casually into the knacker's wagon and trundled away. Too late. He had been too late.

The witcher tipped his head back, screwing his eyes tight as he chased history away with a large swig of brew. Inebriation eased the sharp edges of the past and dulled the pain until October could bury itself away for another year. Solitary flakes of snow swirled from a leaden sky to melt against his flushed face. He closed his eyes and let the fresh scent of the mountains play with cherry vapors from the jug in his hand.

"Damn, I'm pathetic," he growled, scrubbing his face with a calloused hand. A murmur of voices drifting on updrafts floated to the Wolf's ears and he focused his bleary gaze toward the barbican gate. Vernon Roche sat shoulder to shoulder with Ves, perched atop a merlon overlooking the drawbridge. Eskel turned away, feeling as if he were prying into an intensely intimate moment. There were too many people in the keep this year. He could hardly take a step without tripping over someone and that interfered with his customary brooding.

Unbidden, a pair of faded blue eyes gazed at him from his past. Her piquant face was framed with soft feathers of chestnut hair floating on a pillow just before he kissed her, the tactile memory of her silken lips still tingled on his own after all this time. He screwed his eyes shut and tilted the jug to his mouth to relish the fire erupting on his tongue. If he concentrated on the heady alcohol, he could almost forget her. Almost. His vision blurred at the edges and he wasn't sure he could walk a straight line if he had to. Sloshing what remained of the liquid in the demijohn, Eskel estimated he had two, maybe three more swallows left.

'I should savor it,' he thought to himself. 'Has to last the whole month.' Again he thought of her, then immediately shied away from the thought. If he had known nine years ago what he knew now… well, if wishes were horses all beggars would ride. The scar on his face puckered as Eskel scowled bitterly into the night. He never discovered her real name. Her identity had been stripped away when she was sold to the dockside whorehouse in Novigrad. Any man that wanted her simply paid the madam for a night with Primrose. She had been small and delicate like the flower, sweet and beautiful and soft. Nine years later he still remembered her scent; He couldn't eat cherry pie without thinking of her.

'I failed you, Prim,' the familiar, time-worn litany rolled through his head. 'If I had only been there the day before. If I had only known.' Eskel chugged the remainder of the vodka to drown the words as he excoriated his guilty conscience. He dropped the empty jug to the parapet floor as he stood away from the parapet and pressed his palms into his eyes, pretending the moisture gathering there came from the leaden sky.

"Forgive me," he choked on a sob. For a moment, he allowed pain to swamp him as he curled almost double against the parapet. The grind of leather against stone warned him before the fragrance of roses and strawberries wafted from the tower door. Shoving his hands through his hair and straightening up, he turned toward the intruder.

"Triss," his grumbling voice sounding raw to his own ears.

"Eskel. What are you doing out here?" she asked, tilting her face up to him as she drew near. The witcher was cast in shadow but she could swear she heard grief cutting ragged line at the base of his words. She moved closer to him and laid one slim hand on his biceps. "Is everything ok?"

Eskel stilled at Triss's touch, sure her hand scorched him through the thin fabric of his simple linen shirt. With an effort, he forced faded blue eyes to close in his mind, filling his vision instead with the living woman before him. He had been attracted to her as long as he had known her, but Triss only had eyes for the White Wolf. Geralt had finally made his choice, declaring his sole devotion to Yennefer, leaving Triss at loose ends. The scarred man didn't know what his brother saw in the ebon-haired witch, unable to fathom the convoluted twists of their relationship. So long as the White Wolf was happy, and Yennefer didn't treat him like a disposable plaything, Eskel was happy for him. The scarred Wolf cast a sideways glance at Merigold, appreciating the curve of her cheek, white against the darkness.

"What are YOU doing out here, Miss Merigold?" Eskel's hand suddenly itched to move a strand of hair off her cheek.

"Getting some air," she sighed soulfully, looking down into the inner ward, sixty feet below. Turning away, she leaned on the parapet wall away from the witcher. "I keep thinking back to Novigrad and Caleb Menge. The night Geralt and I infiltrated their warehouse." She shivered delicately and didn't object when Eskel draped his arm casually around her, pulling her into warmth of his body. Holding her fingers and running a thumb over the newly growing nails, she looked into his glittering, amber eyes.

"How do people become so twisted, Eskel? I know it's possible," she held up her still tender fingers as she mused. "Until I was under Menge's power, I didn't understand what we were up against. Not really."

The witcher gathered the sorceress into his arms and stroked her hair as she shuddered against him. Pulling away slightly, he cupped her chin in his large hand, trailing his thumb over her lips. Words, never his strong suite, failed to come to mind. Instead he stroked her face with calloused fingertips, tipped her face up as he brushed her lips with his. Deepening the kiss, he traced the line of her mouth with his tongue till she opened to him with a gasp.

She was spellbound, enthralled by the thrum of power that tingled along her skin at his touch. She recalled years before when she pulled away from him, to preserve herself from his attraction, but now she leaned into his palm, reveling in the caress. She was unprepared for the power of his kiss, however, whimpering into his mouth even as she wrapped her hands around his shoulders. Her fingers brushed through the small hairs at the base of his neck. His taste, cherry vodka and witcher potions and Eskel, took her breath away. His fingers plunged into her hair and he slanted his mouth down the line of her jaw, laying love bites to the tender flesh of her neck just under her right ear. His hands drifted to the dip of her waist and easily lifted to perch on the embrasure, moving between her knees while he stroked her from hip to nape.

"Tell me this is what you want, Triss." His rough purr was molten as it whispered over her collarbone. She arched into the hand that cupped her breast and kneaded it gently through her clothing.

Eskel had to remind himself that this was Triss, not Prim, as she trailed her fingers along the stubbled line of his jaw and wrapped her legs around his hips. Laying her back against the stones, he ground himself against the juncture of her thighs as his lips captured the taut peak of her nipple through the silk of her blouse.

"Geralt!" she cried in his arms and he froze, his ragged breath puffing out on her skin. "Oh gods, Eskel, I didn't mean …"

"Yeah, Triss, you did." His voice was harsh, grating. He staggered away and gripped the edge of the merlon, his body tense with anger and arousal. "I won't make love to you with him between us, I won't be his stand-in and let you pretend I'm him," Eskel hissed, glaring, the gold of his eyes sparkling with internal fire. The witcher whirled from her then and stalked away, his pride stinging as he ignored the small voice of his conscience that told him he had been using her just as badly.

The dark Wolf staggered down the stairs, heading for his room and another flask of vodka. Bitterness twisted in his gut as her declaration continued to ring in his ears. He wanted to vomit. He wanted to kill something. He wanted another drink. Heedless of his direction, he collided with Lambert as he reached the landing outside the living quarters, nearly knocking the younger witcher off his feet.

"Damn, Es, watch where you're going!"

"Fuck you, Lambert," growled Eskel.

"Hey, brother, I love you too, but what the hell? You smell like …" Lambert took a deep whiff of the air about the scarred witcher and cackled, "you smell like cherry vodka and Merigold! You making your move now that Wolf is out of the way? Can't say I blame you, she's a tasty piece." Lambert suddenly found himself plastered to the old oaken door as Eskel's hand clutched his throat hard enough to cut off his breath.

"Just shut your damn mouth and I won't beat it into the dirt," hissed the older man with an ugly grimace into his brother's face. Lambert struggled to shift the enraged man's hands away from his throat, gasping for precious air. He had never seen Eskel like this. Oh, sure, they got sloshed on a regular basis every winter on his own special brew of potato vodka and white gull. But never before had he witnessed his brother devolve into a murderous rage. Dierdre Andemon's scar stood out in stark relief on Eskel's face as his fist tightened once again on Lambert's adam's apple.

"Damn, ok, ok, I take it back!" Lambert choked as his vision began to blacken from lack of oxygen. A boom echoed through the hall as Eskel's fist smashed into the old oaken door behind Lambert's head, releasing a shower of splinters. The enraged witcher whirled and stalked to his own room. Lambert just stood in open-mouthed amazement for a moment, rubbing his abused trachea.

"What the hell was that about?" Arek grumbled, staring into the hallway from the room he shared with Micah. The little doctor ducked under her mate's arm and fussed at Lambert to let her see his throat.

"You're lucky he didn't crush your trachea," she murmured, turning his chin so she could inspect the rapidly bruising flesh on his neck."Wouldn't be surprised if you have a sore throat in the morning. Get a cold rag on that tonight. Doctor's orders."

"The hell!" Lambert glared at the little woman in irritation.

"Or don't," she sighed, "you're a big boy. But don't complain to me when you can't talk tomorrow." Lambert scowled at the tiny doctor, then stalked back toward the kitchen, his inventive curses chipping pebbles off the walls as he went.

* * *

Morning dawned clear with the nip of fall promising the long, cold winter would bury the mountains in an icy grip soon. Tendrils of mist lay in ragged tatters amongst the evergreens and hovered over the waters of the high alpine lake. Birdsong was notably thin as many of the species that nested in Kaer Morhen's valley had flown south for the season, leaving their nests as artifacts amongst the branches.

Eskel brushed Scorpion's flanks with slow, sure strokes, muttering soothing nonsense to the black stallion. He had awoken an hour ago with a splitting headache and precise recall of the previous night despite drinking himself stupid with two more demijohns of vodka. In hopes of avoiding both Lambert and Triss, he had gathered his things and slinked out of the castle. Someone needed to patrol the trails, ensure their allies could find them easily as the rest of the castle's denizens prepared for war. He would return to the fortress when Geralt and Ciri did. In the meantime, the abandoned mine not far from the old training trail fit his minimal needs for shelter and solitude. He could drink and brood there in peace without the distraction of a certain redhead to muddle his thinking. He heard her steps in the lower court yard, as though he had conjured her from thin air. Three brush strokes later, she strode into the stables, stopping short as she spied him, chewing her lip and wringing her hands.

"Eskel?" She interrupted his thoughts. He refused to look at her, but nearly jumped out of his skin when her hand on his arm ignited his blood. Her feather light touch burned through his leather gambeson like a brand. His biceps bunched and his jaw tightened into a mulish expression as he continued to brush the horse with steady strokes.

"What do you want, Triss?" he snarled, then immediately regretted his tone when her face went pale. "Damn, I didn't mean to bite your head off."

"No, no, you had every right. I'm sorry for last night."

"I'm sorry too," Eskel mumbled, ducking his head. "I shouldn't have taken advantage of you. I know how you feel about Wolf. Even if he is with Yennefer now, I still feel like I was poaching his territory. That isn't fair to either of us."

"It's just … this is so awkward. Before, I always had some hope. Now," Her bright auburn curls bobbed as she shook her head. "I think it's high time I define my life without him. For what it's worth, Eskel," her fingers tightened on his arm, "even though I said his name, I knew who was kissing me last night."

The scarred man sneered, rounding on her. "I won't be second in line either, Triss, like some cheap consolation prize you get to toy with. I still have some pride." Eskel carded one hand roughly through his hair, his face drawn in an ugly scowl. Scorpion whinnied and looked back at the witcher accusingly, stamping his left forelock in protest of the acid tone. The enchantress looked away from him with a suspicious sniffle as her hands flew to her face.

"Damn, don't … don't cry," the words were gruff, an oddly gentle contrast to his anger a moment before. Cursing his churlish attitude, Eskel dropped the curry comb and gathered Triss into his arms. He was still angry at her, yet inexplicably he could not drive her away. Lowering his face, Eskel began to whisper soothing nonsense into her hair as he bundled her close, noting absently how perfectly she fit under his chin.

"I am such a fool!" she whimpered, soaking his front with her tears. "How pathetic is it that I'm still in love with him?" She was unashamed as she accepted Eskel's comfort, soothed by his gentle strength.

"I don't think it's pathetic that you love him, Triss," he mumbled, resting his cheek against the crown of her head. "I just wish he had treated your heart with more respect these last few years."

She pushed out of his arms, scrubbing a palm at her watery eyes. "I … wasn't honest or respectful either. He lost his memory and I seduced him, didn't tell him about Yennefer. I don't know if that wish binds them together or not, but I was foolish to insinuate myself between them, to think he and I could build a life based on my lies," she laughed, a choking sound that held little humor, looking anywhere but at him. Silence seeped into the cracks between them for a span of minutes before Triss spoke again.

"Are you leaving?" She tried to keep her tone even and mostly succeeded.

"Yeah," he nodded, scuffing the toe of his worn boots in the stable dust. Going to check the perimeter, make sure we're well hidden but our friends can still find us. Vesemir'll know where I am and how to reach me once Geralt is back with Ciri." He studied his boots for another moment, debating the wisdom of kissing her again. Finally, he cupped her chin, stroking her cheek with his thumb as he pressed his lips chastely to her forehead. With a last look, he turned away from her and left in search of his brother Wolves.

"Goodbye, Eskel." She murmured to his retreating back as tears brimmed afresh in her eyes.

* * *

The Wolf rode all morning, setting brush, concealing passages, yet leaving subtle signs to lead Geralt's allies to the keep. He enjoyed the solitude, finding his thoughts of Triss overshadowed by his guilt and grief over Prim. Sometime late in the afternoon, the straining sounds of battle ripped through the forest from the direction of the old mine. Eskel concentrated, heard the cursing of several men, the harsh ring of steel, and the sudden, unmistakable concussive thump of aard. He kicked Scorpion's flanks and flew toward the melee.

In the clearing before the old mining shack was a large witcher, his enormous longsword held at cross stance over his arms at eye level, facing off against a horde of witch hunters. His face was stretched into a snarl and Eskel could see the prickling shafts of three arrows piercing his left arm. At his feet lay four dead hunters. The scarred witcher did a quick head count and estimated at least twelve more of the filth. Eskel's blade rang a peal as he unsheathed his beautiful steel saber with obsidian embedded in the head of the pommel. For a moment, there was silence as all eyes turned to watch him run into the fray with fury and purpose.

Eskel's blade sang as it whirled in his hand, dancing in the light flashing off cold steel. He growled and shouted with each stroke of his sword. Parry, turn, leap, pirouette, flip, turn, block, moulinet, lunge. He was a thing of seething light and rage as he took out the first two witch hunters before him. And then two more soaked him in their life's blood. An arrow whizzed by his ear thumping into the ground in front of him and he turned, snarling, pinpointing where it had come from. The archer quailed at the Wolf's terrible face, snapping amber eyes the last thing he saw before the witcher pierced him through the throat with a single thrust.

When the scarred man turned back, there were only four hunters left, circling just outside the range of the big man's dark blade. Eskel's sword flashed again as he twirled it in a rapid figure eight. He growled, a raw, feral sound that caused the witch hunters to shudder with fear. The growl turned to a roar as Eskel waded back in engaging two of the remaining hunters while the big man took the other two. They fell quickly, but he continued to slice and stab at the their corpses, screaming his war cry until a large, heavy paw landed on his shoulder and pulled him away from the carnage.

"Och, he's dead, man. Leave off. Ye can't kill 'em any more than that," said the deep timbered voice behind him. Eskel jerked out of the big man's grasp and stumbled back, returning from his battle frenzy. He leaned his hands on his knees as he gathered the fragments of himself back together, restored order to his mind and hid the shattered remains of his soul away. When he was as close to whole as he ever would be, he stood and cleaned his blade, sinking it back into place behind his right shoulder. The big man regarded him, his own swords set in place, his own eyes as golden, idly scratching at one of the arrows embedded in his upper left biceps.

"Should get those arrows out of your arm," grumbled Eskel. "I can help with that. Then we'll toss this lot down the mine shaft and burn them. Fucking bastards." The wolven warrior strode toward the miner's shack without a backward glance and pushed open the door as if he owned it.


	25. Battle Ready

Kozin watched the scarred Wolf as he paused at the threshold of the little shack and dropped his head to pinch the bridge of his nose. The Bear wondered if that pose was somehow grafted into witchers when they were mutated, the gods knew he used it often enough.

"I'll be right back." said the scarred one, turning on his heel toward the edge of the woods, shrilling a loud whistle as he did so. It wasn't long before the man returned, leading a beautiful, coal black stallion that tossed his head as he strutted.

Kozin let out a laugh. "Beautiful piece of horseflesh that, and he knows it! Where'd you get him?"

"Law of surprise." the other man grunted. Always get nervous invoking that, but this time I'm glad I did."

The big witcher nodded and came to hold the stallion's lead as the Wolf dug in his saddle bags, stroking the velvety nose. "What do you call him?"

"Scorpion. He's fast and he's got a kick like poison."

"Ahh that's the way I like 'em!" rumbled the big Bear. "And what do they call you?"

"Nothing repeatable even in a whore house, but my brothers call me Eskel. You?"

"Kozin. You saved my ass there, man. Thanks."

Eskel grunted and tossed Kozin a demijohn of something that held the tang of vodka and cherries, then said "Drink some of that and let's get those arrows out. It's gonna hurt."

"Yeah," grumbled the big Bear with a slanted glance at the wolf prowling beside him. "What else is new?"

* * *

"Lambert?" Micah was yelling as she stalked through the keep. "Lambert!" where was that infernal witcher? She strode out to the practice yard. He wasn't there either, and she asked Vesemir if he'd seen the prickly man.

"I'm sorry, child, I haven't seen him this morning."

"Rats!" She said. "I need him to set up a second still. Letho and Arek are out hunting drowners for me and gathering herbs. I've got a feeling we are going to need a lot of swallow once Geralt and Ciri return, from what Kira has told me about her and Geralt's prowl through Avallac'h's hideaway."

"I would hope you won't have anything to do with making it yourself. It's highly toxic to normal humans." said the old witcher, watching Ves and Roche spar with the three men from Skellige who had come in just that morning with the druid Ermion.

"I've got a chemical suit, so I should be just fine, and I promise to be careful." she smiled engagingly up at the old Wolf.

"I wouldn't want to lose my best apprentice in years if she were to be careless around it." he teased.

"Vesemir," she laughed, "I've been your ONLY apprentice in years, and I'm more like a thorn in your side!"

He twinkled at her and said "Just so."

They were interrupted by the swift clicking of steel shod boots as their owner charged through the lower practice yard, his face in a furious scowl.

"LAMBERT!" roared Vesemir as the man stalked past them. The younger witcher's hands clenched hard as he stopped and turned. "There you are, son. Micah has a job for you. It's an important one."

"What the flying fuck do YOU want?" He glared at her, and if she didn't know he wouldn't hurt her, she would be a little afraid of him. Micah had only seen him this agitated once before, when she revealed her origins to the witchers; she wondered what had caused his ire to grow this time.

"Well, I was hoping you would build me a still. Please?" She gave him her brightest smile.

"What do you need with your own ploughing still?" he ranted, crossing his arms over his chest and adopting his most insolent stance.

"Because we need to brew up a considerable amount of Swallow and I don't fancy doing it in an open vat. A still would be a great deal more efficient to brew it in large quantities. You do know that's how they did all the potions back in Kaer Morhen's heyday, right?" She raised an eyebrow at his glare, which could have cut stone.

"I suppose you want me to harvest some drowner brains for you too, right?" he sneered.

"Nah, I have Letho and Arek doing that." she giggled, then grew serious. "Look. We don't know when Geralt is coming back with Ciri, but we do know the Wild Hunt will be hot on their heels. I want to be prepared. I'm no good in a fight, really a liability. But I have a place after the battle is over, and that's patching up the wounded. Swallow goes a very long way to speeding up the process when it comes to witchers, you know, and there are other potions that all of you will need for the fight. Back where I come from, we used to call them Performance Enhancers. I just want to make sure we have everything stocked up and ready. Will you please help?"

"Ah hell, grandma. At least you ask nicely." All tension flowed out of Lambert, but he was still looking at her with spit and vinegar in his eyes. She knew he had forgiven her for her part in creating the witchers when he started calling her "grandma" and "granny".

"Yeah. I'll build you a still. You want it in the lab?"

"Yes. I wish I was a competent electrician so we could wire up a heating element for it, but wood fired will have to do. There's a spot that is actually perfect for the purpose and some bits and pieces in storage that should work."

"Just … would you distract Keira? She's after me to help her with some crawl through a ruins. Says she's going to cure the Catriona plague."

The sorceress had arrived late the previous evening. The scientist was surprised how quickly the woman worked, not that it was hard to get under the hot headed witcher's skin, but he seemed to have developed a surprisingly strong aversion on so little acquaintance. They talked as they walked back to the castle and Micah considered her response.

"Just tell her its all about public sanitation. Get rid of the rats and you will mostly get rid of the plague. But yeah, I've been meaning to sit down for a long chat with her anyway. Tris told me about her obsession."

She showed him the area she wanted the still in, pointing out the flue worked into the old stone. They discussed how big the still should be and she showed him one of the rooms in the dungeon that held an odds and ends assortment of large copper tubs and bins.

"They used some of these to make the stuff that turned us into witchers." Lambert's voice vibrated, low and tense, his jaw bunching convulsively.

Micah, turning toward him, said "I know you don't like it down here. It brings back a lot of brutal memories. I just want you to know that I really appreciate the help."

"Get out of here, granny, and keep that sorceress away from me." he said gruffly. She patted his shoulder on her way out, which elicited some colorful language that popped and fizzled about the dank confines of Kaer Morhen's underbelly, and she laughed as she left to find Keira Metz.

* * *

"And they just sat there, the dumb shites, not realizing they had been goats for the last half a year!" finished the big Bear, wheezing a laugh as he took another swig of the fine hooch the Wolf had provided him. They had long since dispatched with the arrows and he now sported a neatly tied bandage around his upper arm.

Eskel was choking as he gasped "You should have charged them double for being stupid enough to mess with a wizard not just once but four times! How did you eventually get him to turn them back?"

"Ah, lad, that was the best part! I got him roaring drunk and persuaded him he had turned the love of his life and her sisters into goats and had to undo the spell before the wedding!"

Eskel levered himself up from the floor and staggered to the woodpile to throw another piece of split log on the flames then sank back down and stared into them.

"This is good hooch, Eskel. What's the occasion?" Kozin took an appreciative sip of vodka, enjoying the burning path it cut down his throat and the way the cherry essence rose up his palette to tingle his nose. He watched as his companion went very still and brooding. It was a long time before he started speaking.

"About ten years ago, there was this girl at Crippled Kate's. She was sweet, with big, pretty blue eyes and the softest chestnut hair you ever felt. Didn't know what her story was at the time, but she was young. Don't really even know why I formed an attachment to her, I avoid attachments as a personal rule, but over the next year if I was in Novigrad, would visit her. The last time, I was arriving just as they were hauling her beaten body out of the brothel. Some Witch Hunter fuck, it turned out, visited her weekly and brutalized her. I never got it out of the madam weather the girl had been beaten to death or if it was the fisstech she had overdosed on that had killed her. Really doesn't matter, one and the same cause. I found the fuck who did it to her and treated him to his own brand of a good time. Left him swinging from a rafter with his own sword up his ass."

Kozin handed the man a full demijohn of the cherry vodka and grunted. "That explains you going crazy out there on the bastards who we hacked to mincemeat. Seems a good enough reason to get roaring drunk every year too, to me." at the severe look from the scarred wolf, the other witcher nodded. "Aye, I found one of your flasks smelling like cherries. You come here every year and get it out of your system then you go home to your wolf den to wait out the winter. Am I right?"

"Yeah. Only this year I can't take the time to get over it. Gonna have to go back to Kaer Morhen." Slurred Eskel, "Brother needs me there. Wild Hunt is coming for Ciri … his surprise child … and we need to fight 'em off."

"I thought they were just a story to frighten villagers on long, boring nights after the harvest." Kozin wasn't precisely sober then, either.

"They're real enough. I need to return to the keep tomorrow. Your welcome to come with, Koz, but its not your fight, so take the invitation for what it's worth."

"Seems to me you saved my ass. Today, Es. That means I've got, as the elves would say, a bywyd'dyl, a soul debt of blood to reconcile. Aye, I'll come with and lend ye my sword."

He was answered by a snore as Eskel slumped over on his side, passed out. Kozin hadn't drunk nearly as much as he let on, learning long ago to moderate his intake and let people relax around him. He tossed a blanket over Eskel's limp form and lit his pipe, contemplating what the Wolf had told him, then pulled out the folded letter he had found in one of the Witch Hunter's possession before they had torched the remains earlier in the day. The wolves were going to have more than the Wild Hunt on their doorstep soon if he understood the missive correctly, and they would need help.

* * *

They arrived at Kaer Morhen together around two hours after noon, the massifs of stone walls rising up in the steep sided valley. They were greeted by the sounds of swords clanging in the practice yard. There were a great many more people than Kozin had expected, knowing all the witcher guilds were on the road to extinction. They dismounted in the stable and took care of their mounts as an older witcher strode up. It looked, at first, to the Bear that the man had some sort of hairy growth on his shoulder, but as he moved closer, Kozlin could see it was an animal.

"Vesemir," said Eskel, clasping hands with his mentor, "This is Kozlin, of the Bear School. He's come to help."

"Eskel, it's good to see you back. Kozlin." the old man nodded in his direction, accepting the big paw to be clasped. "I knew Undevar, back in my youth. We hunted for a short time together back during my second season on the Path. He was a good man. A good witcher. I was gratified when he took over as Grandmaster of the Bear guild."

Kozin took a second look at the old man, who was indeed very old if he remembered Undevar before he was the Grandmaster.

"Yes, he was a good man, and a good friend."

The animal shifted on Vesemir's shoulder and leaned toward him, making chuckling noises with it's lips. Kozlin nearly jumped out of his skin when he caught sight of the creature's slit pupiled eyes.

"What the bloody hell is that?" he took a step away.

Vesemir grunted. "Betty, here, is a proto-witcher. Come, I'll tell you all about it. Eskel, would you help Hjalmar and his boys with Savolla's breach? We need to get it closed up before the hunt can get here." Eskel nodded and moved away.

They walked toward the inner bailey and stopped in the practice yard. There, a woman stood, in deep concentration, in front of a caged rat.

"Concentrate, Micah, envision what you want him to do. Make the sign and let it go along with your will." said the man who was standing next to her.

Kozin watched as she formed the axii sign and the little animal in the cage cocked its head, then stood on it's head in a very un-rat-like manner. The woman turned, letting the axii go as she heard their steps on the stones in the yard. Kozin was surprised. She wasn't anything terribly special to look at, pleasant, but not beautiful, and small enough to walk under his arm without stooping were he to hold it straight out from his side. Looks aside, mundane humans didn't use signs, at least he had never known of any, though in theory it was possible. Supposedly it was too much of a draw on their stamina and they would kill themselves doing more than lighting a candle. He guessed she must be some sort of magic user.

"You brought me another witcher, Vesemir?" her smile was brilliant and Kozin was surprised how it transformed her face.

"Not I. Eskel found him. Kozin, this is Micah Patterson Von Winslow. You could say she's the ultimate witcher's secret. The big guy next to her is Arek of Malleore, witcher of the Manticore school." Vesemir made the introductions and Kozin took a second look at the girl.

"Witcher secret?" said the big Bear as the animal, Betty, crawled into her arms and looked at him … lovingly?

Arek and Vesemir brought him up to date, telling him about her past, her involvement in a super soldier program and making Betty. They told him of the threat from the Witch Hunters and the Church of the Eternal Fire, as well. Kozin sank his chin on his chest, his arms crossed over him, while he sorted through how he felt about the founder of his order standing, full of life, in front of him. Hell, he wasn't even sure he believed them, it was fantastical, still , they believed what they said and were in deadly earnest about it. He sighed and thought back to the boys he had watched being pitched over the cliff. The boys who hadn't made it. What witcher boy had not fantasized, after surviving the ordeal of the Grasses, about murdering those who had come up with that tortuous Trial. She approached him then, quietly, and touched his hand, just a butterfly flutter, there and gone.

"It's ok if you hate me. I understand.

"Lass, I'm not sure what I think. It's a bit much to take in." he rumbled down at her.

"Would you be willing to answer some questions and give me some samples while you consider?" She asked, a self deprecatory smile twisting her lips.

"Explain that," he indicated the chimp, "and I may." he said, giving her a doubtful glare.

The woman nodded, then turned to Arek, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. "Lambert probably needs some help with that still and I know Letho could use a hand with the drowner brains. Would you help them and I'll meet up with you later."

The big man gave her a smouldering look and brushed a strand of hair from her face then nodded. He led the way as they went inside the castle keep and down into the lab. Kozin could hear someone banging on something, cursing an inventive litany. He could smell the stench of drowners from somewhere beyond the cursing and pounding as the Manticore turned toward the ruckus and he followed Micah deeper into the dungeon.

They stopped at a door which swung open at her touch, feeling his hackles rise as she fiddled with something against the wall and an unnatural light filled the space, yellow, glaring and harsh. His medallion didn't do more than twitch a little as he came into the room.

There was a desk with an odd, oblong thing that looked like it was a book, sitting on one half with the other sticking up from the desk, and he made out strange odors he could not identify. A soft whirring sounded in the room and he looked around to locate the source, not finding it on first inspection. Micah motioned him into a chair by the desk and she took the other. Betty, the chimp took the opportunity to detach from the woman and hop into his lap.

"If you don't want her there, feel free to tip her off. She likes men, though, and you are new, so she wants to get to know you. She'll play with your beard - you and the Skelligers are the only ones with appreciable ones, and that is new to her. I think she really likes Witcher smell, though, and identifies you as part of her tribe." Micah spoke as she poked at the odd, book-like object a few times. He realized some of the whirring noise was coming from it and watched in amazement as pictures appeared on the surface. She turned it toward him and pushed a button, starting what she called a dubbed video for him to watch while she prepared her sample gathering materials. His blood ran cold as he took in the information, thinking about the implications.

"There's more, and they took videos of the first Trials." Her eyes were hooded as she placed her tray next to him on the desk. "Please take off your gambeson and roll up your sleeve."

"And what did you think of that, lass?" he asked as he complied and sat back down.

"It was brutal and inelegant. Their mortality rate was unacceptable, as was the methodology. But they didn't have time for niceties. I'm honestly not sure if had I ported with them, that I would have come up with anything better."

She Had him rest his arm on the desktop as she tied a strange, stretchy thong around his biceps. She had donned thin gloves of a similar material and was using two fingers of her right hand to slap the inner bend of his elbow. He smelled the acrid scent of alcohol and felt it's cool touch on his arm, then watched as she inserted a needle into one of the veins standing proud and embossed on his arm.

"Let me know if you start feeling woozy. Some people, no matter how tough, get light headed at this stage." her lips twitched and he wondered which of the big men here had gone belly up on her. She collected three vials of his blood, removing the band from his upper arm shortly after collecting the first. After affixing a bandage to the little pin prick, she bade him open his mouth as she used a long, thin, wooden paddle to scrape the inside of his cheek. Finally, she had him bend forward as she inspected his head. Her finger traced his scar and she hummed. He felt a pinch up near where he actually had hair, then she pressed something there and told him to hold it down hard. He watched as she put a plug of skin and hair into a vial and labeled it.

She then sat and started asking him a multitude of questions, recording his answers on her strange information device, the one that bent like a book. Where was he born, how old was he was when he was taken for a witcher, age he underwent the trials, what he remembered, she was very thorough and meticulously tapped in everything he said. When the questioning was done, she looked in his ears, his eyes, his throat, she felt his neck, explaining she was checking his glands, then moved on to thump on his back and listen to his heart with a strange object he could not identify.

Eventually, the examination was concluded and he asked her, "So what are you going to do with all these samples and answers? You planning on reinstating the trials? Making new witchers?"

She regarded him for a long time, then said "How many witchers of the Bear school are left, Kozin?"

"Me. Just me. I'm the last."

She nodded. "Arek and Letho are the last their schools as well. We know of no Griffons, and it's debatable how many Cats there are, perhaps two? Three at the most after the wars have taken their toll and the empire crushed their school in Nilfgaard. Geralt, Eskel, Lambert and Vesemir are the last of the Wolves. How many witchers have you personally encountered, not counting your advent here to Kaer Morhen, in the last ten years, Kozin?"

"I don't know. Two, maybe three." he answered.

"At best estimates, there are less than twenty witchers in the whole world. That's a lot of knowledge and value to be lost. You are in a profession where you might not make it to your next contract. Arek has told me his stories and they scare me to death. There is no new blood being brought in, no youngsters even being trained in witcher ways and philosophy, notwithstanding mutations. That is a loss I find unbearably sad and, frankly, alarming." She fiddled with her instruments, then looked at him. "What would you think if I said I could create a method that would ensure a very high success rate with the mutations and a very low mortality rate amongst participants? One that worked on women and men and created a breeding population. What if that process was no more traumatic than getting a nasty cold and could be instituted in late adolescence or very early adulthood?" She held his eyes while he considered his answer.

"We're having a hard time finding work as it is, few as we are. More witchers wouldn't fix that." he hedged.

"The last conjunction was just one in a series." She said, nodding to her strange, folding information box. "There will be others. In fact there is another due soon, in the next hundred or so years. Conjunctions that will bring with them the denizens of all the planets that dropped hags and leshens and forktails here to begin with. Witchers will always be needed, Kozin. I think we do a disservice to our world to let you and all your knowledge die out."

He didn't get a chance to answer her as a compact witcher in black armor poked his head around the door jamb just then.

"Your potion still is all set up and running smoothly, granny. You got swallow mash brewing. Papa Vesemir says to come to the upper courtyard, he's got something to address."

"Thanks, Lambert. We'll be there shortly." she nodded at the man, who looked Kozin over appraisingly then left.


	26. The Calm Before The Storm

_**Alternate Universe? Why yes, yes it is. Why do you ask?**_

* * *

 _Roads go ever ever on,_

 _Over rock and under tree,_

 _By caves where never sun has shone,_

 _By streams that never find the sea;_

 _Over snow by winter sown,_

 _And through the merry flowers of June,_

 _Over grass and over stone,_

 _And under mountains in the moon._

 _Roads go ever ever on_

 _Under cloud and under star,_

 _Yet feet that wandering have gone_

 _Turn at last to home afar._

 _Eyes that fire and sword have seen_

 _And horror in the halls of stone_

 _Look at last on meadows green_

 _And trees and hills they long have known._

 _Bilbo Baggins "The Hobbit"_

* * *

Fall was always such a lovely season in Redania and Kaedwen; the sky was a rarified cerulean blue and the air had this nip that told you that winter was coming. The days were warm, but the nights were getting colder, and as Jad Karadin and his children moved further north into the foothills of the blue mountains, the colder it became. Karadin had avoided the roads and towns on their flight from Novigrad. He knew he was in no shape to defend himself or his children since the torture he endured at the hands of the Witch Hunters had left him raw and ragged. Though he had cached his armor and weapons in the root cellar of an abandoned tenement just outside the city gates, he hadn't included any potions with his stash, an oversight he was regretting now. Swallow would have helped tremendously.

The Cat witcher had a few favors he called in, one to Sigi Reuven, otherwise known as Count Dijkstra Reuven, former head of Redanian Counterintelligence, and one to Francis Bedlam, the King of Beggars. Dijkstra had agreed to get his mother-in-law out of Novigrad and on her way to Vizima, there to stay with her eldest daughter. The old woman had threatened, begged and pleaded with him to let her take the children, but the witcher was implacable. He was taking them where the church and its dogs would not be able to get at them. Bedlam helped him to get out of the city with mounts and supplies and agreed to run a campaign of interference to keep the Witch Hunters off his tail for as long as possible, giving him a generous head start.

Greta and Tolly had been terrified of him when they saw what the Hunters had done to his face. Truth be told, there wasn't a patch of skin on him that was free of cuts, bruises or deeper tissue injury. Jad was fairly certain he had two or three broken ribs and his kidneys were terribly contused since he was urinating blood. Something was definitely, painfully, knocked loose inside him and he just hoped he could get his children to Kaer Morhen before whatever it was decided to come off all together and kill him outright. The battered man would not have been able to tell you why he was going to the Wolven keep, had you the opportunity to ask; he couldn't even explain it to himself. There was at least one wolf who would howl for his blood, there, and Lambert had promised to kill him if ever their paths crossed again. Fine, let it happen, but let them take in Greta and Toly first and protect them. His obsession with getting his adopted children into their hands was all consuming.

Karadin pushed his family hard. They rode from before sunup and made camp just before dark, eating cold rations, eschewing a fire in favor of concealment and staying away from all human habitations. The children huddled together in a single bedroll while he meditated throughout the night, staying on alert for any danger. Both of them had fallen into solemn silence, not knowing who this man they loved, this man who had been more a father to them than he who had given them life, had become. He was stark, ragged, and broken.

The days wore on and on till Karadin stayed in the saddle by force of will alone. His injuries weren't the only thing dragging him down. Over and over, the vision of Letitia's last minutes on this earth were replayed in his mind's eye until he felt he had gone mad. He heard her screams and cries, just as helpless to save her now as he was at the time it happened. He eschewed sleep, because it meant dreams. Though no stranger to nightmares of past traumas, this one was too fresh and vicious to risk somnolence. He didn't think his heart could break any more than it already had until he overheard his children's whispers in the dark.

"What'll we do, Tolly? Papa just stares straight ahead when we stop for the night he sits all night long. And in the day we ride and ride and ride. We'll ride right off the end of the earth!" the little girl cried to her brother, trying to stay as quiet as possible in the bed roll they shared. Her papa didn't sleep in a bedroll, he didn't even sleep, just sat on his knees staring into the black woods, not saying a word.

"Don't be a ninny, Greta. The world doesn't have an edge to fall off of. It just goes on and on and on for ever." The boy tried to keep his chin from trembling at the thought that maybe they would go on riding forever, too, with their ghost of a father who lapsed into silences rarely broken, and then only to grunt instructions at them. Today, on the sixth day of their endless journey, he hadn't said anything at all.

* * *

Six witchers and one mundane human woman stood in a loose circle in the secluded upper courtyard, on the left hand side of the keep. The men were big, strong, unmoving and implacable. Even the smallest of them, the wiry Lambert, was solid and redoubtable. Vesemir looked at them, the wolves and the others.

"Eskel told me what happened at the miner's shack." he began. "The Witch Hunters are getting bold, seeking out our traces. That unit was in the area on purpose to find us."

Kozin took the letter out of his pouch and handed it over to Vesemir. "Found that on one of the bodies. Didn't get a chance to talk about it with Eskel as we were busy with clean up and such. But it pertains. Are they really trying to steal secrets of the trials to mutate their own Hunters?"

"Yeah," said Eskel, "They are. Arek and Micah heard them talking on the way here." The scarred one nodded at Kozin's low whistle.

"I'm thinking we should move the lab. Get Micah out of here. I don't want her vulnerable to them." Said Arik. "She knows how to use what we gathered from the Citadel and I think she would be able to reproduce her work."

"I would." she agreed to their hooded gazes, "But it is a long, long way from human trials. Not to mention I would need complicit magic users to make the process work, since I have no access to radiation generating machines or the chemotherapy agents we used for the chimps." She chewed her lip. "I'm unremarkable except that I was in the company of a witcher, and that's all they know about me. The data is what's important to them and they wouldn't have the first clue how to get at it or interpret it if they did. Yen could cover the lab over with an illusion if it came to that. Something we would be able to bypass, but they wouldn't."

"Greater kingdoms have been lost with that kind of thinking, Child. We'll find a safer place to hide the lab than in the keep. We want ALL our secrets safe from them." Said vesemir after perusing the Hunter correspondence. "I was hoping to be able to put this off till the business with the Wild Hunt was completely finished. But we need to make plans now. Once Geralt and Ciri are back, we can expect the Hunt to follow, and then we will have to fight. After that - if I understand the sorceresses and that sage well enough, the next theater of operations for them will be in Skellige, not here. All our reinforcements will leave and we'll be on our own against the Witch Hunters."

"Let 'em come." Purred Letho, grinding one fist into the other. "Any one of us is more than a match for ten of them."

None of them mentioned the possibility that they might be hurt or killed during the upcoming battle. Every man knew the risk, lived it every day of their lives. Witchers weren't invulnerable.

"I want Savolla's breach cleared and repaired." Said Vesemir. "I want the armory cleared and those weapons made ready. Micah, you have swallow brewing, yes?" She nodded. "Good. I want to rig the drawbridge to blow, make it harder for them to get in here. I'm sure there will be damage after the Hunt. I want us ready to effect fast repairs where we can. We can expect that Hunter force in approximately three weeks. We will be ready for them."

* * *

On the seventh day, Karadin put Greta up with Tolly on his horse and mounted his own with great difficulty. They rode under the canopy of trees that had turned from summer green to autumn red and gold. The witcher was in a world of agony. He was having difficulty breathing, the pain inside him was roaring and his vision kept fading in and out. It was a wonder the man stayed in the saddle, that he found the right trace and was able to follow it to Kaer Morhen was divine providence or perhaps even destiny.

* * *

Lambert was pacing in the lower courtyard, watching Ves complete a witcher's sword drill. She was good, he had to give her that. And because of that, he wouldn't go easy on her.

"Get your fucking sword up, it's a blade, not a knitting needle. Those wraiths aren't going to go easy on you because you have a pretty face! Now, slash, slash, parry, pirouette! Do it again. FUCK! I said get your sword up! Start at ox. Do it again. Damn, there ya go. You can listen. Whodathunkit!"

He sneered at the venomous look the Blue Stripe commando was throwing his way. He remembered it well from when he threw the same look at Vesemir when he was about her age. Lambert looked around the courtyard. Roche was sparing with Hjalmar, Kozin was discussing tactics with Letho, Arek had Micah practicing footwork drills without a blade and Vesemir was talking quietly with Ermion. Just another normal day at Kaer Morhen Boot Camp. The youngest witcher was just about to put Ves through her paces again when he saw the horses coming through the gate house. He moved forward, seeing two children on one of the animals and a man slumped over the other. He got closer and then he began to swear, pulling his steel sword and yanking the man out of the saddle.

"You fucking WHORESON, Karadin! What the hell are you doing here, you dumb fuck!" all activity in the yard had ceased and people gathered around.

The witcher, Jad Karadin, lay prostrate, his gambeson bunched in the furious witcher's fist. He cracked open his eyes and couldn't focus. He could only croak out one word "H… help." before he lost consciousness.

Lambert was prepared to strike the man dead when he realized his arm had been stayed and he looked around at who would dare such a thing. His brows furrowed and he growled at Micah, who held on to him for all she was worth.

"I don't know what this man has done to you, Lambert," she hissed, "but he is seriously injured and you don't want to kill him in front of those kids." She took advantage of surprising the enraged man by pushing him out of the way.

She did a quick survey of the injured form, noting the bruises that were a sickening green and brown all over his face. Lifting his eyelid and noting the ill yellow of his sclera she sucked in a breath.

"Arek, Letho! Get him into the infirmary, now. Vesemir, Eskel, keep Lambert out here. Kozin, take care of these horses. Ves and Roche, get those kids inside. And with those orders barked out like any seasoned military commander who expected them executed immediately, she snagged Ermion into her trail and headed for the infirmary with her goal to save a dying man.

* * *

Lambert paced in the lower courtyard. He pulled his steel sword and looked at the keep, then put it back and paced some more. Amazingly, he was beyond his usual, foul vitriol and had descended to a simmering silence. Vesemir, Kozin and Arek watched him as they leaned against a wall together while Eskel and Letho sat on some boxes and played Gwent. The Blue Stripes, Skelligers and Zoltan Chivay had retreated to the upper courtyard, Commander Roche directing them to various and useful combat drills. The sorceresses were nowhere to be seen outside the keep.

Tap tap tap went Lambert's booted feet on the flag stones, tap tap grind, tap tap tap. Arek had lost count of how many times the younger man had made his circuit when an unnatural wind picked up and started blowing detritus around. A sound like a rushing waterfall began to grow until it was deafening. Lambert had stopped pacing and was backing away from the center of the space. Suddenly, with a flash of light and inexplicable force, two people appeared out of nowhere. A white haired man and a young woman who's ashen locks were very like the man's.

"VESEMIR!" Ciri cried and flung herself at the old witcher, tears in her eyes. He caught her eagerly and held her strongly to himself, feeling a hint of moisture making his own glisten as he held her.

"Child! It is so good to see you!" Vesemir breathed into her neck, then set her down, holding her shoulders so he could look at her. She had grown up so much since he last had seen her and his throat was too tight to say any more.

"CIRI!" Cried a feminine voice from a rampart as Yennifer hurtled her way down stone steps and pulled the girl into her firm embrace, letting her tears flow freely. "Let me look at you! Oh, you are so beautiful! My Ciri!". The sorceress sobbed and embraced the ashen haired girl tightly, once more.

Tris took her turn then, calling Ciri her "little sis" and crying openly. Ciri turned toward Eskel and Lambert, then, hugging the two witchers. When she gazed up at Eskel, she thought how dear he was now and how frightened she had been the first time she had seen him. _'His scar comforts me now'_ she thought as she hugged him tight.

Introductions were made, then, between the girl and the three unfamiliar witchers as the Wolves led Geralt and Ciri back to the keep, trailed by Tris and Yen.


	27. The Wild Hunt

"Swallow, hand me that swallow. Put him there and help me get him stripped." Karadin heard the woman's voice, vaguely felt his body shift, his armor being removed, felt the dribbling of a liquid into his mouth and he swallowed the familiar, cloyingly bitter potion convulsively.

"There ya go." said the woman's voice. "A little at a time. Slow and easy does it. Ermion, his liver is damaged. He has jaundice. Can your magic do anything for that?"

"Give me a moment, my dear." the second voice was heavily accented Skelligan. Karadin felt a warmth over the right side of his belly, just under the ribcage.

"Someone beat the snot out of him. All over. His internal organs are probably all contused." said the mellow contralto of the first voice. It was calming. There was another dribble of swallow down his throat and he tried to open his eyes.

"Shhh shh. Don't try to stir yet. Your children are fine. We are taking care of them and they are having a treat in the kitchen. Shhhh." The woman's voice again.

"Hu… hunters." he managed to gasp.

"We know. We know, Karadin. Shhh." How did she know him? How did she know it was the hunters. More swallow passed between his lips. Why couldn't he open his eyes.

"I'll put him in a deep sleep." that was the Skelliger. "Rest is what he needs now. You got the whole vial down him and that will do, Micah. We've done what we can."

He felt a sheet pulled up over his naked form, a hand brushed his forehead as she replied. "That's for the best, Ermion." His consciousness slipped away then and darkness claimed him.

* * *

Ermion and Micah entered the great hall to find everyone gathered around Geralt and Ciri, listening to their account of the events on the mystic Isle of Mists.

"The Hunt is sure to follow us soon," said Ciri. Micah noticed that Betty had introduced herself to the girl and had taken up residence in her lap.

"We are ready for them, child." Said Vesemir. "All the preparations are made."

The discussion turned to tactics then. The sorceresses would erect a shield, the witchers and warriors would try to close portals, Ermion would call on the power of nature and the wilds to confuse and confound the enemy. Roche and Ves had been using the preceding week to set a variety of traps, including staked pits all along the castle's perimeter and Ermion had found gas deposits,which he had opened in the lower and upper court yards, that could be ignited when enemies were near. Ciri was to stay inside with Micah. No one was to face any of the hunt alone. There were enough witchers and warriors to ensure they were not singled out for slaughter.

"I can fight!" Said an irate Ciri. "I can help you defeat the Hunt. Why must I stay inside?"

"We can't chance the Hunt isolating you." Growled the White Wolf. "If they take you, it's over." He crossed to her and took her shoulders in his hands, flexing his fingers there, looking down into her mutinous, upturned face. "Please, please. Ciri. Let us protect you. This once." His eyes were earnest on her, knowing her volatile nature.

"Fine." The girl capitulated but her jaw showed she was still mutinous.

The talk continued for some time before witchers, warriors and magic users departed for their places. Arek approached Micah and she embraced him, holding him to her as hard as she could.

"Come back to me, witcher. Don't you dare die. Not after all we've been through together."

He didn't answer, just tipped her head back and kissed her desperately, as a man who has finally found oxygen to breath after being without for too long. Arek released his woman, turned and strode from the keep without looking back.

Ciri came to stand next to her then, holding Betty in her arms and watching the exodus. She felt frustrated, angry and useless.

"I, for one, am glad you will be here to protect us." Said the short woman beside her, regarding her with those calm, cinnamon eyes. "I'm worthless with a sword. Vesemir has tried to teach me the last couple of weeks, but the best I've managed is throwing it." Her lips twitched and brought an answering grin from the girl.

"They're all here for me. All putting their lives on the line for me. How am I supposed to feel about that? I should be out there with them!" Ciri was angry.

"Yes, we are all here for you. But there's a great deal more at stake than just this fight, Ciri. Avallac'h will explain more later as it's not my place. I would make a hash of it in any event." Micah looked around. "Do you have an idea where the children were taken? I think they should stay in the infirmary with their father tonight. At least until the fighting is over and we need to patch up these witchers. Come, help me find them. I am sure they are terrified. You seem like someone they would trust." Micah smiled at her again and the girl agreed.

They found the little ones hiding under a table in the kitchen, eyes wide and faces pale. The two women coaxed them out and much soothing revealed their names. The little girl was Greta and maybe three; the boy was a sturdy five summers old and proudly announced his name as Bartholomew Jasper Karadin. His papa was a witcher so they better be nice to him and his sister. Micah soothed them and led the party up the stairs to the infirmary where their adopted father lay. It was as the children were being tucked in, their eyes drooping from their journey, that Micah felt the air thrum with magic. She looked to Ciri, who was gazing out from the balcony.

Micah joined her and Betty chirped in anxiety, clinging to both women as they looked at the spreading blue dome over Kaer Morhen. They could see the blossoming blackness of portals dot the landscape around the outside of the keep, the forms of the Wild Hunt and their hounds emerging like a pestilence. Micah closed her eyes and felt sick as she watched, worry gilding her spirit as she thought of Arek out there, waiting for those armed nightmares to come at him.

"He'll be ok." Ciri said, clapping a hand on her shoulder, the girl's voice taking on a strange timber. "The blood you seek has the answers. All things come full circle, and where one hangs in the balance, another will take his place."

"What?" Micah stared at the girl intently.

"Huh? It'll be ok. They are all going to be ok." Ciri sounded, now, like she was trying to convince herself as the booming of aard exploded across the distance and the clash of swords could be heard beyond the lower courtyard. The battle raged on and suddenly a scream ripped out. It was Tris, caught alone, surrounded by wraiths and hounds.

"Oh no! NO!" Yelled Ciri as she disappeared in a puff of light and reappeared on the battlements of the lower curtain wall, racing toward the red headed sorceress.

The roaring combat climbed the walls and Micah watched with horror as the girl fought the Hunt, blinking in and out and back into place behind them. She heard Vesemir's booming voice yelling for the portcullis to be closed and saw Lambert stumble, cut off from his team, desperately trying to hold off six forms in the heavy armor. She watched as their blades snicked at him and she knew he couldn't avoid them all. A particularly heavy blow landed on his ribs and he cried out, falling on his back, trying to bring his blade up to protect himself. Just as it seemed all hope was lost for the young witcher, the Huntsmen were dashed into the air and thrust back toward the ground with great force. Lambert looked up passed where Micah watched and saluted at someone above her. One of the sorceresses had saved his life!

Another bright flash of blue showed Ciri popping in behind a large Hunstman that was exchanging blows with Eskel, who was holding his own, but there were many other foes there. Kozin was doing his best to hold off the horde and at least ensure the scarred witcher only had one foe to deal with at a time. His great Zweihänder swung and swirled faster than her eye could follow, but it was not enough to prevent their position from being overrun. Ciri blinked and grabbed Kozin just before a hound could bear him to the ground, then blinked out. Micah watched as Eskel was pressed back and fell, barely parrying a blow from his huge opponent. Again the blink and Eskel was whisked away.

She saw the witchers and warriors all fall back to the upper courtyard, desperately fighting for their lives as the air turned unbearably cold. The castle's defenders were overcome by the creeping white frost, frozen in place. All but two! She saw Vesemir pick Ciri up as they stumbled to the right of the court yard.

Then she felt a presence beside her and turned. Avallac'h had joined her, his hands holding his weakened body up on the stone balustrade. Micah looked back at the battle and the pair shared the torment of knowing they could do little to turn the tide of what was happening below them. Betty started to shriek and chirp, then suddenly broke away from Micah, racing for the door. The geneticist struggled, thinking to run after the chimp but not wanting to tear her eyes from the chaotic scene below. She couldn't find Arek, where was he? She stayed, searching ramparts and battlements for his form, dreading that he was already dead in the wicked cold.

* * *

Betty ran, something pulled her along the stone stairs against her deepest instincts. The noises frightened her and she wanted to hide. But that pulling drew her. HE was in danger and she couldn't let him be hurt. HE was her ONE. She scampered to where she knew there was an open window close to him and looked down. There, below her, one of the black things was fighting with him, swinging the sharp sticks back and forth, yelling, screaming at each other. Betty didn't see any of the others that were of the tribe, just the small female that had come earlier. Why didn't they come to the ONE and help him? Could they not sense he was in jeopardy? When Betty saw the big man grab her ONE by the throat and hold him against the wall, she launched herself from the window.

* * *

Micah watched, her throat closing in horror as Vesemir and Ciri were surrounded. The old witcher fighting a Huntsman nearly twice his size, hounds and more wraiths pouring out of portals around them. There was nothing she could do but watch as Vesemir's sword was flung from his hand and he fell, the bulk of the Huntsman hiding him from view.

Another of the big wraiths, Micah just knew it had to be their king, was holding his hand out to Ciri as Vesemir was flung against curtain wall, held by the throat, his feet a foot above the earth She couldn't make out the words they were speaking to each other, the wind was howling and she could barely stand the cold as ice shards were whipped and flung every which way.

She watched, her heart dropping as Vesemir thrust something into the wrath pinning him to the wall just as a dark, furry form hurtled out of a window below her and landed on the Huntsman, screaming in shrill cries as she tried to fasten her teeth on his throat. The wraith staggered back, trying to rip the chimp from his faceplate, batting at her wildly. Vesemir rolled and grabbed his sword and slashed out just as the big Huntsman ripped Betty from his face and threw her against the wall hard enough that Micah heard the breaking of her bones. The great sword was in his hands as he feinted then lunged, burying his sword in Vesemir's chest.

Ciri staggered as the Wild Hunt surrounded her, the big wraiths closing in as her hands raised to her head, watching Vesemir die before her. She went to her knees as a wild keen erupted from her, a sound no earthly throat could ever reproduced. Micah fell to her knees, covering her ears, feeling sick to her stomach. She saw pieces of the castle break off and swirl in a vortex about the girl, sweeping the dead into it's whirl. One of the giant Huntsman brandished his staff, a glowing orb atop it, and a portal appeared, allowing what remained of their force to escape the wild, shrilling shriek.

Avallac'h uttered strange sounding words beside her and she felt the shudder of air as his spell swept down and silenced Ciri. Micah didn't stay in the infirmary. As soon as the keening stopped, she ran as fast as she could despite the cold and the pain of Ciri's scream, to where Vesemir lay, a Wild Hunt sword sticking up from the right side of his lower chest.

She got to him and checked his pulse. THERE, thready but there! Micah looked at the sword, it had run him through and through, just at the lower edge of his chest cavity. She needed to cut the armor away. Desperately she looked for something to stabilize the big blade. Removing it would be difficult but not impossible. There was still a chance. She was barely aware of witchers and warriors alike limping to her position when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She looked up at Roche

"He's alive. We have to get him inside. Have to stabilize the sword so it doesn't cause more damage. Give him swallow, carefully. Just a dribble."

Her medical brain started to take over then and she barked orders, commandeered the ones standing in exhaustion around her to bring that old door, hand her that bundle of rags, hold on to that sword - DAMMIT don't let it shift! They got the old witcher moved up into the keep to table in the great hall. Eskel helped her remove the gambeson, cutting through the leather with a hooked blade. They stripped Vesemir to his breeches and she inspected him again. Ermion limped in with Tris and Micah looked at them pleadingly. They shook their heads, exhausted and out of magic.

"I have to remove the sword. Get that swallow down him." She checked his pulse again, noting that it was fast for a witcher, a thready seventy-five beats per minute, and that scared her. She checked his pupils and noted that they were pinpoint and his breathing was labored. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, Eskel nodded. The swallow flask was empty.

"It has to come straight out. No deviation from the path it took coming in." She looked to the druid and sorcerer. They were done in, no energy left to help her with this operation. She nodded, looking at the great sword that was as tall as she was, and tried to calm her own racing pulse.

"Ok. Ok, here's what we do. We have to turn him on his left side and slide the blade out. Someone - you, Ves, bring me two goodly sized pieces of that thin oiled pig skin. They have to go all the way around his chest. He's going to have what's called a sucking chest wound and won't be able to breath because the pressure inside his chest will be the same outside. We have to create a barrier so his diaphragm will work. Letho, Kozin, roll him on my mark only. Eskel, you stabilize the sword. It cannot shift inside the wound. It has to move with him. Arek, help him." She looked at her crew, there in that dingy castle room, wishing for the miracle of a modern emergency department and knowing it for the foolish thought it was. She nodded at them, then counted. "ONE. TWO. THREE-SHIFT!" They rolled him and the two witchers held the blade steady.

"Ok. It has to come out in the same path it went in. It cannot deviate. Do you understand?" They nodded in the affirmative and once more she counted. "ONE. TWO. THREE - pull!" The sucking sound of the metal leaving the old witchers body was sickening, but it was done smoothly and quickly.

She and Ves slapped one of the oiled skins around Vesemir, wrapping it tightly enough to create a seal in his chest wall, both front and back, then used the other one to secure the first. Micah checked to make sure it wasn't so tight he couldn't breath.

"Get him into the infirmary and we'll finish stripping him." She looked around at the exhausted faces surrounding her. "Who else is hurt?"

* * *

Several hours later, a shaking Micah dropped onto a bench near the fire that roared between the great room and the kitchen. Everyone had been injured to greater and lesser degrees. Kozin had needed his leg stitched where a hound had torn his thigh open and Lambert sported a compound fracture to his left clavicle and three broken ribs along with various and sundry lacerations. She had just finished stitching a two inch vertical line on Arek's cheek that gave him an even more rakish appearance than he already had. Ermion, Keira and Tris had proven to be adept medics and had helped her with the triage and suturing.

Geralt approached then, a furry form held in his arms, looking grim. Betty. She dangled limply and Micah knew the animal had not survived. She took the still body from him and just held her, looking into the White Wolf's face.

"She saved Vesemir's life, you know." She said tiredly. "She jumped out of the window onto that big Huntsman's face and distracted him. He had Vesemir by the throat. If not for Betty … she choked and her eyes clouded. Her voice came very small as the white haired witcher sat at her left, Arek at her right. "How will we survive if they come back?" It had been very close. If the Hunt hadn't been intent on just capturing Ciri, if their goal had been eradication, none of them would be alive now, no matter how valiantly the defenders of Kaer Morhen had fought.

"She proved herself a true witcher." rasped Geralt, leaning his arms on his knees, hanging his head as he fought the process of his body detoxing from the potions he had used. Arek was in a similar state. Both men were exhausted and shaking.  
She curled up around the dead chimp and wept for a moment before shaking herself. She had two severely injured patients that needed her focus and witchers that needed her care. There was White Honey to distribute to help them detoxify and they all needed food and rest.

She stood and laid Betty on the table that had held Vesemir, then fetched a vial of White Honey each for Geralt and Arek. Nodding when she watched them down the cleansing potion, she left to distribute the remaining vials to the other witchers then up into the keep to check on her patients resting in the infirmary.


	28. Aftermath

The bottle of Swallow lay empty in his hand as Jad Karadin contemplated the ramifications of where he was now. Was it really only yesterday that he had been at death's door, welcoming the strike from Lambert's sword that would put him out of his misery? His children had greeted him this morning with accounts of the Wild Hunt and the battle that had rampaged the night before. If it weren't for the old witcher in the bed next to him and a Skelliger with his head swathed in bloody bandages in the one after that, he wouldn't have believed such a fantastical tale.

The woman with the comforting voice had come in to give him the potion and do a thorough examination on him, pushing on his belly, listening to his heartbeat through a strange device, looking into his eyes, it was somewhat disconcerting. But the Swallow was helping, as was the enforced rest. He was in less physical pain this morning and could feel his body mend itself. He looked up toward the entryway, feeling the cold stare upon him, into Lambert's eyes. The man wanted to kill him, with cause, admitted the Cat. He noticed the wiry Wolf was trussed up in bandages around his chest and his left arm was in a sling that kept it tight to his chest. He came without swords on his back as well. That surprised Jad.

The Wolf prowled toward him, his face a mask of indifference, stopping along side the cot and sitting on the stool placed there for visitors. "What are you doing here, Karadin?" the question was bald, no preamble, no cursing, no threats.

"Running from the witch hunters. And bringing you a warning." He closed his eyes against the memories that admission brought back.

"Why here? What could you possibly want with us?" Lambert's jaw was bunching, the only indication of his agitation.

"The church is a powerful enemy to have. If it were just me, I'd be dead now and it wouldn't matter. But my family .. I … my children. They would take my children. This was the only place I could think of to keep them safe." He turned the empty vial around and around in his hand.

Lambert just stared at him then asked "What did they want. The Hunters obviously were the ones who tortured you. What did they want?"

"They wanted to know where Kaer Morhen was and they wanted to know how I was made a witcher." Jad's hand covered his eyes. " And yes, I told them what I knew, which wasn't anything they couldn't get from any number of books on the subject."

"Fuck. How long ago?" Karadin could tell Lambert was staying calm with an effort.

"End of August. They took Letty and Me in for questioning. Thought they had Greta and Tolly too."

"Letty. Your wife?" The Cat nodded. "Where's she at now?"

The Cat school witcher folded in on himself and couldn't speak the words, he tried but they wouldn't come, but the images, the memory wouldn't stop. He started sobbing and shaking violently.

"They did her in front of you, didn't they." It was a statement. Karadin nodded. It was all he could do.

Lambert swore and stood, looking down at him. Then he turned and walked away.

* * *

How was he supposed to hate the man now, Lambert wondered. Maybe he was responsible for Aiden's death, maybe he even delivered the killing blow, but he hadn't tortured an innocent. If half of what he had heard about Eternal Fire and Witch Hunter techniques was true, it hadn't been a quick or pretty death.

The young Wolf had wanted Jad Karadin to pay for his crime, but not like this. And those kids! They were without a mother now and the Cat had brought them to the Wolves to raise. How ironic was that? He stopped in the great hall and glared at the fire in the hearth, letting the thoughts go round and round in his head. Maybe he couldn't forgive the Cat witcher for the murder of his friend, but he could let go of his need for vengeance for the time being. A mutual enemy was coming for them and there wasn't really any room for personal vendettas.

* * *

She called it a stethoscope and it was cold. "Take a deep breath for me. Good, another." she said in her quiet voice. The old wolf tried a deeper breath and started coughing.

"I'll be ok. I've come back from worse." he wheezed, trying to shoo her away, but she wouldn't be shooed.

"You've come back from worse than multiple facial fractures, including a crushed zygomatic arch, and a collapsed lung resultant from a sucking chest wound caused by a through and through piercing, complicated by rib fractures on entry and exit that would have killed you outright if not for immediate intervention. Hmm. Ok. But you are still laying here in this bed and doing what I say so you recover from THIS without any setbacks." She smiled at him, but he knew she wasn't joking. His old body could feel how close he had come to buying it.

"Betty …" he started.

"Betty died like a witcher." said Micah, looking down, and her lashes looked suspiciously wet. "She saved your life."

Vesemir nodded, a lump in his own throat that he swallowed as he asked, "Did we lose anyone else?"

"Vigi died honorably as well." She nodded sadly, then gave him the run down of the injured. "Lambert will be out of action for a while as his ribs and collarbone heal, Folan lost an eye but gained a wonderful scar to woo Skelligan girls with, Kozin has a really nasty wound on his thigh from those hounds. But most everyone else got away with bumps, bruises and relatively minor lacerations. Nothing Swallow won't heal up for the witchers fairly quickly, though your bones are more dense and they still take time to knit. Lambert will be out of the action when the Hunters arrive. "

"Ciri?"

"She … I can't even explain it. Manifested? Maybe? Drove the Hunt away in a panic, the ones her wail didn't kill outright that is. Still not sure how it didn't kill you. Maybe because you were unconscious at the time. Would have destroyed all of us but Avallac'h cast a spell that put her to sleep before the keep crumbled. She's resting quietly in her room last I checked. Geralt hasn't left her side except to check in on you."

Vesemir felt every one of his many years and leaned back into the pillows, closing his eyes. His face hurt, his chest hurt and he was damn ready for threats to leave his beloved Kaer Morhen alone. His fingers closed about the vial she put into his hand just then and he looked back to her.

"I'm glad you're here, child. You and Arek, you tipped the balance, I think." He brought the vial to his lips and scowled as he downed the liquid inside. "Uuuhgh. Foul brew."

She smiled and took the empty vial from him, letting him know that food would be brought up directly, then she rose and left. Vesemir settled back down and closed his eyes. He would rest so he could be ready for the Hunters when they came.

* * *

Dead huntsmen and hounds lay everywhere. Micah moved among them, removing faceplates from the humanoids, taking samples from everything.

"What are you doing?" grated a rasping voice behind her, making her jump. She looked and acknowledged Geralt as the witcher strode up to her.

"Some of these men are humans and some are elven. I would have thought they would all be from the same peoples at least."

"Hunt takes slaves. If you happen to be any kind of warrior, you get conscripted to ride with them. What are you doing out here?" he repeated, his patience noticeably thin.

"Samples. I haven't had a chance to gather any from elven sources. Avallac'h turned me down when I asked. Speaking of, will you give me a few? Eskel said you had been selected for further mutation experiments. I'd like to see what they did." She tried not to shiver at the look of disgust that crossed his face.

"You going to start the Trial of the Grasses up again?" He all but seethed.

"Not per se, no. But I want to see what was done with my original work." she looked him in the eye.

"Let me think about it." Said the White Wolf. "You almost done? Need to get these bodies into a pit. Best to burn them so they don't attract necrophages."

"Yeah. These are the last." She stood, shaking her head. "What is the plan going forward? Will they be back?" Her sweeping arm indicated the remains of the Wild Hunt and she tried not to shudder at the thought of another fight like the one the previous night with depleted forces.

"We have a reprieve but the Hunt will have to be dealt with definitively, soon. Not here, though." He replied, grabbing hold of a body and dragging it to the mounting pile outside the gates of Kaer Morhen.

* * *

Lambert stood in front of the fire in the great hall and sighed. His clavicle hurt as did his ribs. All things considered, he thought, it wasn't a bad way to spend the day. It beat the alternative, which was lying on a slab next to Vigi. Or Vesemir. He was surprised at how the thought of losing the old man shook him. As much as they didn't get along, he didn't want to be bereft of the old witcher. It had been such a close run thing and his mentor wasn't entirely out of the woods yet. If he never saw another Wild Hunt wraith in his entire life it would be too soon for the young Wolf's comfort.

"Mmmm, your thinking pretty deep, Lambert." Purred the sexy voice of the blond sorceress, Keira Metz, as she sidled next to him.

He didn't respond right away. He wasn't used to being pursued by sorceresses, he wasn't Geralt of gods be damned Rivia after all, and he didn't relish the thought of being a stand in for the White Wolf with this woman or any other. He knew she owed his brother something, and that's why she had come, but it was just conjecture there was anything more than obligation. Geralt had, after all, finally made his preference for Yennifer official so it was unlikely he would bring yet another lover to the keep.

"Lot's to think about. The Hunt, witch hunters. What to have for supper. Takes a man's whole concentration."

"Oh dear, don't tell me you're cooking tonight, and with only one good arm." She teased.

"What? You don't like my cooking? It's haute cuisine. My incinerated beef stew is all the rage of the continent." He sneered, daring her to contradict him.

"Mmmm maybe I'll do the cooking tonight. I'm good at it when I exert myself."

Her smile was feminine, secretive, and he found himself wanting to trace it with his thumb followed by his tongue. He didn't think she would be adverse to that. But he stayed away from entanglements with sorceresses. From his long experience with Geralt, he knew they couldn't be trusted. But he was very attracted to the petite blond and had to work hard to control his body's reaction to her every time she drew near.

"How are you feeling this afternoon? Is your collar bone exceedingly painful? When was your last dose of Swallow?" She asked, starting to fuss with his bandages.

"Leave off, Keira. I'm fine. You don't need to hover over me." He didn't quite snarl at her.

"Maybe I just want to assure myself you're going to continue to be fine. Those Huntsmen nearly had you last night." there was something suspiciously like a sniff in her voice and the fluttering of her hands was leaving a trail of fire over him that he gritted his teeth against. He grabbed one of the offending appendages, holding it away from his body.

"Then again, maybe I'm tired of being put off." She prowled toward him then and he backed up till his shoulders were flat against the wall. "Maybe I want to talk to you about something that could be very mutually beneficial. Profitable. Maybe even pleasurable." Her free hand had landed on his belly and was inching it's way up toward his chest, pulling his shirt with it.

He sucked in a breath as her thumb raked the bear skin of his abdomen and faster than she could respond, he snaked his good arm around her waist, reversing their positions. He pinned her back against the stone wall with his right thigh pressed between both of hers, leaving no room between them, subtly grinding against her. He was gratified to hear her indrawn breath and feel her reactionary shudder. His body was plastered to her from knee to chest, reeling from the contact, and he wondered who was really in control here.

The top of her head tickled his nose with the scent of her hair and he smiled. She was just the right height for him. His mouth descended to hers and just before he swept her in a rough kiss he stopped. "Is this what you want, Keira? Do you really want to play with fire? I'm a very dangerous toy." his voice was a quiet, deadly purr that poured heat through her, igniting her in ways no one ever had before. Maybe there was something to the theory that witcher potions made these men so much more intoxicating than the normal human variety. She was ready to test that hypothesis.

"I like a good fire. It keeps me warm at night and scares away the boogie men." She murmured, rising up to claim his mouth hovering just beyond her lips. Her tongue ran along the seam of his lips as he expelled a breath and kissed her hard, rough. She matched his dancing tongue with her own and moaned. Her arms slipped around his waist and she explored the territory underneath his loose shirt, tracing his scars, driving up his blood pressure.

The fingers of his good hand wrapped in her hair, angling her head so he could trail his mouth along her slender throat. She tasted like sin, like the best bourbon he had ever gotten drunk on, like everything he had ever wanted. "Are there many boogiemen in your life, Keira? Is that why you want a witcher? To keep you safe?"

"Why does anyone want a witcher, Lambert, if not to be rescued from monsters? Maybe I want to contract you as my personal body guard." She caressed his leg with hers, raising her knee to his hip, hooking her dainty foot behind his thigh to lock them together. Her breaths were coming short and frantic as he suckled at the base of her throat.

The rhythm of her heart was driving him insane and her scent filled him with it's enticing sweetness. Lambert backed slowly away, holding her hand, and pulled her with him upstairs to his room, to finish contract negotiations in private.


	29. Memorial

Khemmerstock, a sizeable township located at the confluence of the Gwenllech and Coina rivers where they became the Buine, was merry with preparations for its harvest festival. Maids danced through the streets with acorns and golden leaves in their hair and swains chased them about, hoping for kisses and tumbles in the haystacks.

Bellview March glared out the window of the ealderman's manse. That good man was a staunch member of the Church of the Eternal Fire and had willingly given up his family's abode to the Witch Hunters when they rode in through the gates. March was not pleased, however. It was already the eighth of September and his personal schedule was lagging behind. He wanted to advance on Kaer Morhen in strength, with a company of at least a hundred, overpower his foe and set their heads on pikes before October first. Thirty-five seasoned Witch Hunters stood in the yard below him drilling another forty new recruits in swordsmanship and hand to hand fighting. Most of the new ones were painfully young. What they lacked in age and experience, they made up for with youthful zeal and exuberance. Still, he wanted another thirty or so experienced fighters to round out his force.

The Witch Hunter turned and ordered three runners be sent to him immediately as he bent to the desk and wrote out missives. One was to go to Aedd Gynvael, one to Ard Carraigh and the last Ghelibol. The contingents of Witch Hunters in those cities were to send their best and leave skeleton crews in their respective demesnes. Once Kaer Morhen had been satisfactorily dealt with, the troops could be released back to their customary precincts and duties. They were to make all haste to Khemmerstock and arrive within a week. The commandant of the Witch Hunters sanded the missives and rolled them, inserting them into watertight tubes.

When the runners had been sent on their way, March returned to the window. Now, all that remained to set his plans into full motion was the return of the scouts that now explored the upper reaches of the Gwenllech to find the best path to the Witcher's keep.

* * *

They all gathered around the funerary slab at sunset. Vesemir had insisted on being present, though Micah had objected heartily, worried about his wounds. Geralt and Eskel carried him down from the infirmary in a chair much to the chagrin of the old man, but his complaints fell on deaf ears and he was transported to the mountain ledge where witchers had been cremated for centuries.

Hjalmar and Folan brought Vigi's body out and laid him at state, dressed in his helm and armor with his great sword laid atop his body. Micah laid Betty next to him, the witchers having agreed she deserved the rite as much as any of them would have. Ermion officiated, intoning the powers of earth, sea, sky and land to accept the bodies and spirits of the slain.

Before the pyre was lit, Ciri and Geralt went forward, both laying a hand on the dead chimp. Neither had been able to shake the dreaded thought that it might have been Vesemir lying there instead of her. Vesemir cut a look at Micah, then stood up. She was just about to admonish him when Arek laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, indicating she should allow the old man his will this time.

"I owe my life to both of these brave souls." said the eldest Wolf. "Vigi fought bravely by our side, though the fight wasn't his, and Betty was a simple creature who couldn't have understood what was happening. As long as witchers remain in Kaer Morhen, their memories will be kept alive. As long as there are witchers on the continent, their stories will be retold." He nodded once, then lit the pyre with Igni, returning with dignity to his seat.

Geralt spoke with everyone present as they clustered in little groups about the blaze. He wasn't surprised to see Vernon Roche with his arm about Ves's shoulder, thinking they made a logical pair. He was, however, amazed that Lambert seemed intimate with Keira Metz. He knew the younger man's general opinion of sorceresses.

Geralt definitely didn't expect a silent Jad Karadin to attend tonight with his children, standing off from the group. When had they got here and why? The last thing he knew about them, they were in Novigrad, living the lives of wealthy merchants. He slid a look to Lambert. The man had a justifiable vendetta against the Cat school witcher but he seemed to accept Karadin's presence.

Arek and Micah were, of course, together. The White Wolf was still uncertain concerning the geneticist and didn't trust what she said about the trials, but he couldn't fault her for saving Vesemir's life. All the Wolves owed her for that. He looked at the gathering and tallied in his head how many of his cast were present. Eight witchers, and there weren't likely more than eight more in the entire world. How many of them would still be alive by this time next year? How long would it be before there were no witchers left at all?

Humanity seemed to need them less and less lately, but what if another conjunction happened and they were needed again? His order had been created to protect people from an overwhelming incursion of powerful and deadly creatures that had outnumbered them greatly. Perhaps he would speak with Micah tomorrow in her lab, get more information before he came to a final judgement. If she could do it without the murderous cost of the original Trials, it might be worth considering.

* * *

Back inside the hall, soup and fresh bread were passed to everyone. The night was cold, dipping down into freezing temperatures, and the hot food was welcomed. They had watched the pyre till the flames had mellowed from their initial roar, then retreated into the great room to talk quietly and make plans. Micah passed out more Swallow to all the witchers, letting Ciri coax Vesemir into drinking his "foul brew" and tempt him with a little mulled wine afterward.

"Soon as the flames die and all is ash on the slab oot there, we'll be takin' wha's left o' Vigi hoom with us." Declared Hjalmar. "Ermion'll see us to Ard Skellig in a portal. Been a reet pleasure to fight alongside ye, but it's time we were off." Folan nodded his still bandaged head and Ermion agreed.

"Geralt, let me know if you need any further help once you and Ciri are back in the Isles. You are always welcome in the Druid's grove." Added the old druid.

"Ves and I must be off, as well. There's still much to be done if we wish for a free North." Roche gave Geralt a speaking look as he raised his tankard, to which the White Wolf raised his own in salute.

Avallac'h spoke quietly to Ciri, whose face wore a mutinous expression.

"We will start with control drills in the morning, Zirael. You should get your rest tonight."

"I'll decide when I need to rest. I've really only just gotten here and want to catch up. I have hardly seen Geralt and Yennefer since Thanned Isle." Her chin was thrust out and her eyes sparkled.

Avallac'h was accustomed to her moods by now, knew when to push. It was still early in the evening yet and he didn't doubt he could coax her to her own bed once Vesemir was helped to his. He surveyed the company, deciding who to trust, how much information to dispense. But that would be for the morrow.

The crystals Micah and Arek had brought back from the Citadel of The Snow Hare had given him a great deal to think about. His was not the only world that would suffer from the white frost or from glaciation. Every world affected by the sundered fabric of the universe was in peril. The added complication of temporal/spatial distortions that rippled back and forth between the originating planet, Earth, and his own, destroyed homeworld would bring the ice to every one of them far sooner than it should have come. It would also ensure it never left. His fight was no longer about saving his home planet. No, in a very real way, it was an existential struggle for the universe itself.

He had a plan, but everything depended in the short term on Zirael and her ability to control her gift, the blood of Lara Doren. If she failed … well, there was the geneticist to consider and perhaps a quicker method to create the adepts needed than the laborious breeding program the Aen Saevherne had started fifteen hundred years ago. She would need samples from Zirael and from himself if she was to help him accomplish his goal.

Avallac'h would return here to pursue the expansion of the Lara Doren project after Eredin, Imlerith and Caranthir were dealt with. The current King of the Aen Elle and his advisors were fools who trawled through the worlds looking for slaves to serve their own comforts, thinking that eradicating humanity was all it would take to establish a new home for their people. They were drunk on their own power and short sighted as most despots were. He hoped his plan worked and the humans here would accept his leadership and advice.

* * *

One by one, two by two, the company stole away to their beds. Vesemir was carried to his own room, declaring that he couldn't rest in the infirmary. Eskel showed Jad and his children to a larger chamber where they could stay together.

The scarred Wolf returned to the great hall, knowing it would be deserted now that everyone had turned in. That suited him fine. There were too many people at Kaer Morhen for Eskel's liking right now, not enough quiet. He thought about the girl from Crippled Kates and found the pain and self recrimination had lessened since he had unburdened himself to Kozin. He also realized he hadn't dipped into his cherry vodka since before the fight with the Wild Hunt.

Eskel heard the grind of a foot on stone well before Tris turned the corner from the kitchen. The scarred witcher watched her a little warily, their last encounter still fresh in his mind.

"Hey." she said.

"Hey Tris." He nodded, not sure what to say.

"I'm sorry about last week. It was wrong of me to try to use you. You deserve better than that." She was watching the play of liquid heat along the remains of the logs on the hearth.

"And I was drunk. You didn't deserve that." He, also, watched the logs burn.

"I'll be returning to Novigrad tomorrow. We need to find Phillipa, Margarita and Fringilla to help end the threat of the Hunt for good."

"Is it wise to reconvene the lodge there, or at all really? Novigrad isn't safe, you know that." Eskel kept his voice level, but his right palm was itching for his sword when he thought about the Witch Hunters.

Tris sighed "Nothing is safe any more. But we have to take the risk. The alternatives don't bear thinking about."

The scarred witcher nodded and looked at her. "After all this is over, what will you do?"

"King Tancred Thyssen has offered me a position in his court as an advisor in Pont Vanis and Lan Exiter." She returned his gaze, "I can do a great deal of good there, helping the displaced wizards, sorceresses and alchemists settle in their new country. Kovir may be colder than I like, but it beats being warmed by the Church of the Eternal Fire. It's a chance to start over, rebuild my life from scratch."

Eskel turned to Tris, putting a hand to her shoulder and found himself drawn in by the play of the firelight on her lips. He bent his head and kissed her, gently, then raised his other hand to frame her face. Tris settled into the shelter of the Wolf's body, reveling in him.

"Be well, Tris. Be safe." His voice was a deep whisper at her lips, then he kissed her once more, exquisitely, and left her standing before the dying flames,


	30. Where Lara Dorren Left Off

Avallac'h observed Micah quietly from the doorway of the witchers' laboratory. She was whistling some tune and occasionally singing a line of lyrics in her native language while she moved around a tall bench fitted with stands, beakers and strange machinery. He thought it odd she would be up before daylight after the frenetic activity of the last seventy-two hours. In his experience, which was admittedly narrow concerning humans, the mundane amongst them didn't push themselves to exhaustion. She was obviously anything but mundane, no matter how she would argue to the contrary.

Holding a dagger-like object in her right hand, the geneticist was dipping the tip into small vials then transferring the liquid into an odd gelled substance in a transparent pan. Before dipping, she would push a button on the dagger-like thing and eject the used tip into a waste bin and then affix a new one. Each sample got it's own tip. The Aen Saevherne counted how many vials she had lined up in the little block and it corresponded exactly, plus two, to the number of Aen Elle who had perished in the battle with Eredin's Riders of the Wild Hunt.

Micah had finished with her dipping procedure now and moved the container to another of her bizarre machines. Avallac'h noticed the container had some fluid in it surrounding the gel and metal posts stuck in the corners. She put a lid on the container, hooked up wires to the posts and flipped a switch.

"Very interesting appliances you have here." Commented the elf in his deep timber, Micah's screech and involuntary hop rewarding his words.

"That was NOT nice of you. I think I just had a little heart attack there. Haven't you heard of knocking?" She shot him an arch look as he leaned in the door frame.

"I didn't want to disturb you during a delicate procedure. I've come to discuss some matters with you."

"Hmm. Do those matters have something to do with Ciri's gift?" she asked, wrapping the vials in a thin, sticky film and placing them in a white, upright chest that stood approximately three feet tall.

"Indeed." Avallac'h nodded, ambling forward, "I've come to seek your advice and knowledge, in fact. Would you explain to me what you were just doing? I find it fascinating."

"Soften me up with shop talk, is that it?" The little geneticist grinned at him and bade him take a seat beside the desk.

Using the box on the desk she called a "laptop computer" she showed him pictures of cells, deoxyribonucleic acids, and chromosomes. There were diagrams of how DNA fit together in a twisting double helix and how sequences of base pairs spelled out every word of organic life. Micah launched into an explanation of polymerase chain reaction technique, the way it increased sample size of nuclear material she was studying and how to cut a strand of DNA using restriction enzymes, how that created strands of differing lengths. She showed him the experiment she was running, told him it was called PAGE or polyacrylamide gel electrophoresis and explained how it would let her compare genome sequences between individuals. She talked of her theory that the Adept gene, what he called the Laura Doren gene that proved the Aen Hen Ichaer, the Elder Blood, was also instrumental in the creation of witchers and sorcerers. They discussed how she would go about finding the gene itself and manipulating it.

"There are approximately three billion base pairs in the human genome." The scientist smiled as Avallac'h looked at her disbelievingly. "Big number, huh? Well, I wanted to see how the elven genome stacked up. I've yet to do a chromosome analysis to determine what's going on there, but I'll get to that later today. Humans have forty-six chromosomes that are arranged in pairs. Twenty-two of those pairs are the same in males and females, and one pair determines if you ARE a male or female. To give you a comparison, Betty, and all other hominid groups in the great ape family, had twenty four pairs.

"I am pretty sure elves also have twenty-three chromosomal pairs, just like humans. In fact, I'm entirely convinced we are NOT different species since we can interbreed and make offspring that can also interbreed. It means we're leaves shooting from the same branch of the family tree."

The sage was scowling at her now. "Do you mean to say we are related?" He found the thought somewhat revolting.

"More than related, my dear Wise One. We're brother and sister." Micah's smile and winked. "You can choose your friends, but you are stuck with your family."

Aiming for nonchalance, the sage muttered, "How long before that," he pointed at her apparatus, "yields results?"

"I've set it to run for the next twelve hours. Then I'll be able to compare my samples visually. So," her elbow was propped on the table, her fist supporting her chin, "tell me about Ciri and her power. It was inherited, yes?"

"Do you know of Lara Doren?" he countered her question with his own.

"Not really. I know the basic story that Lara Doren and Cregannan of Lod fell in love, that it was not encouraged by either elves or humans and people got stupid about it. Lara and Cregannan ended up dead and they say no one knows what happened to the baby."

Avallach steepled his fingers and peered at the ceiling. "Lara's daughter, Riannon, was Ciri's great-great-great-great grandmother and bore the elder blood. Lara herself was the result of a centuries long breeding program to strengthen and focus the Aen Hen Ichaer to stave off Tedd Deireadh, the time of the end . That program was started by the Aen Saevherne before humans ever came to this world." It was Avallac'h's turn to become the professor and he warmed eagerly to his subject matter. The elven sage explained Ithlinne's prophecy, what it meant to the elves and how Lara and Cregannan had mucked up the works. The last hundred and fifty years had been a series of wildcards thrown at the gene as it splintered and reassembled finally in Ciri, the most powerful manifestation of the Elder Blood since her esteemed ancestress. Avallac'h explained how the conjunctions, and their rebounding ripples would exacerbate the coming ice age and make it never ending. He explained how Ciri had the power to stop the ever widening tears in the fabric of the universe and stabilize time and space, thus allowing the Aen Elle and the other races to survive the ice.

"Zirael can do nothing about the primary rifts, the conjunctions, which were set events from the beginning of creation to the end of it," claimed the sage, "however, she can prevent the unraveling of the universe from the echoes of the original disturbance. She can go to the exact time/space coordinate where those ripples converge and diverge, then nullify the event horizon that has birthed the encroaching entropy that is the White Frost."

"If she fails?" asked Micah, her voice a mere whisper.

His replied was equally quiet. "If she fails, then we must, we MUST, create a new child of the Elder Blood who will be able to do it before everything is shaken into destruction. We have time, to use your own words, Doctor, for elegance."

He asked Micah if she thought it possible to recreate the breeding program more efficiently.

"Hm. If you have Aen Elle who you KNOW have the gene, and you have access to genetic material from them, it's possible. The easiest course of action would be getting sperm and eggs from those willing to donate. It would be a matter of using petri dishes to fertilize the ovum with sperm, then to implant the resultant embryos into willing female surrogates." Micah tapped her lips with one finger and stared at the opposite wall. "If I knew for sure where the gene was located and what other genes modulated its expression, I could splice the prime sequence and it's attenuating factors from a fully realized adept into the relevant male and female gamete then fertilize the Adept eggs with Adept sperm to create a whole cadre of Elder Blood children. We'll just stop right here to give a little nod of acknowledgement to the doubtful ethics of the endeavor. Such a thing could, and quite likely would be used in a disasterous way."

Avallac'h looked at her and thought, not for the first time, what a pity it was she was human and not Aen Elle. She had the makings of a very fine Aen Saevherne given a few hundred years of study.

"You know. Real prophecies are funny things." said she. "You have someone like Ithlinne Aegli aep Aevenien, who was able to see down the tangle of probabilities into the future, who foretold this child of the Elder Blood. What if that blood required the two sprouted leaves from the same evolutionary branch, just a little separated, to twine together and make that mixed child in order for the prophecy to have its complete fulfillment?" Micah looked at Avallac'h, smiling at how his jaw bunched on that prospect. "I mean, obviously humans have the gene too, else we would never be able to manipulate quantum strings - make magic. Then again, I'm just a geneticist and I haven't yet figured out how many chromosomes you have, oh Wise One."

* * *

Eight beady eyes watched, unblinking, from underneath the table as the little girl looked back. It was a fairly large representative of its species and family, _Hogna helluo_ , and really only wanted to be left in peace. The child wasn't trying poke or prod, so it stayed still, arching it's abdomen higher above its legs to make itself look quite a lot bigger than it already was.

Greta heard the light step of an iron shod boot on the stone flagging behind her and thought maybe her papa had finally come out of his room today. The footstep behind her certainly had the same quality as her papa's, that barely-there tread the little girl had come to love.

"Papa!" she whispered hopefully, soto voce, "Come see this spider I have discovered here! But don't scare it." she kicked her feet up and down, her legs, from the knees down being the only part of her that was not under the the bottom shelf of the table. The man behind her crouched down, then spread out on his belly and inched under the small space with her.

"What kind of spider?" Asked a voice she didn't expect and she looked his way in panic. It was that witcher who had come to have words with her papa when they still lived in the big house in Novigrad; the witcher who had raised his sword to her beloved father when he was so desperately hurt. She watched him from dark blue eyes as wide as saucers, suddenly gone as still as the arachnid in the corner.

"Hmm. It's a wolf spider." He said, not looking at her, just laying there contemplating the eight legged creature. Must have come in for the winter. He's as big as your hand, girl."

The terrified child squeaked in a breathy whisper, "Are you going to stab me with your sword?"

Lambert turned his head, his eyes boring into hers. He could feel the fine trembling of her fear through the air and hear her young heart pounding in a frantic rhythm like a caged bird in her chest. "Why do you think I would do that?"

"You want to kill my papa. If you hate him, you must hate Tolly and me too."

"I don't hate you or your brother. And I won't kill your papa while he's here at Kaer Morhen. I promise."

"Why do you want to kill him? He's the bestest of all men." Her eyes had lost some of the fear and she was staring into his own, tears trembling within their depths. "You're like him, are you brothers? My brother is mean to me sometimes and I hate him, but Mama always says to forgive and not to hate."

"That's not always so easy." grumbled the witcher, lying on the floor and inspecting a spider.

"No, it's not always so easy." Agreed the little girl, kicking her feet up and down, lying next to the man who was so like her papa. "But what's the use of staying mad? It just makes your tummy hurt."

And that, thought Lambert, was logic no mortal could ever argue against.


	31. Of Wolves and Hunters

"Follow the Gwenllech up the mountain, sir. I've placed some cairnes to show the way." Said the scout, standing before Commandant March, who sat at the desk and scratched lightly at his healing face. "I was able to track all the way to the head of the valley, saw old stone works and even the palisades and curtain walls of Kaer Morhen. I got close enough to see they were in a big fight recently and their front gate is broken open. They are sitting ducks, sir."

March grunted, then nodded at the scout. "Good work. Get some food and rest." The man bowed and retreated, closing the door behind him. The commandant picked up the letter that had been delivered by special courier just that morning. Radovid, in a pique of generosity, was sending twenty seasoned, special forces troops, to quell the witchers and establish the Eternal Fire in Kaedwen. They would arrive within the next four days. His fingers kept returning to the line of stitches that marched from his right temple, across the cheek, to just below his chin and he wondered if that dog, Karadin, had made it to the keep. Good intelligence had revealed this was his direction of travel when he left Novigrad. In his fondest daydreams, Bartholomew March fantasized about meeting that witch-fucker again, with a sword in his own hand, and teaching him what pain meant. Oh yes, thought he, a lesson in pain was what he was all about. Karadin would curse the day he was reborn a witcher before he finally died.

* * *

Eskel walked the woods along the Gauntlet, singing an old song he had learned from his mother.

.

" _De ole hen she cackled, she cackled in de lot;_

 _De nex' time she cackled, she cackled in de pot._

 _De ole hen she cackled, an' she cackled on de fence;_

 _De ole hen she cackled, an' she ain't cackled sence. "_

Vaguely did he remember his mother, a woman with a halo of dark hair and kindly eyes, who smelled of bread and warmth. He had tried many times, since coming to Kaer Morhen, to conjure a more detailed picture of her, but it was always this hazy and hardly grasped image, along with the song, that floated in his thoughts. She had died when he was still very, very young.  
He remembered in excruciating detail running this trail as a boy when he first came to this ancient valley. Brutal didn't cover how grueling the training had been when he first saw these mountains. Eskel had been orphaned and on his own for what seemed forever to him then, a filthy, skinny guttersnipe in Maecht, when a wolven witcher had caught him stealing potatoes from his saddlebags one night. Funny, the things one could stoop to when hungry, and those potatoes had been far less risky than other things he might have done to survive. HAD done to survive in his very short life. Eskel veered away from that thought. Perhaps it had been destiny for him to choose a witcher to steal from, a man who would open a new life for a small, hungry child and give that boy something to live for. Was it fate that Geralt had become more than his best friend? That they were bound together in a brotherhood of pain, sorrow and suffering as the youngest candidates in their selection group, having been administered the Trial of the Choice before they had started into puberty, unlike the others? Had the gods ordained they would be forged, then, in the pits of that dungeon during the Trial of the Grasses, then the Trial of Dreams, to emerge alive when the rest of their group would not? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was all blind chance.

Eskel didn't know exactly how old he was now, but eighty-six years had passed since he had undergone the final Trial of the Mountains and been reborn a witcher at last, no matter what _phláim_ _folie aep cáerme_ , as the elves would call it, had interfered in his life. The dark haired man wasn't sure he believed in the hand of mad destiny, but he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He reveled in who and what he was, and he was very, very good at what he did. Regardless how hideous the Trials were or how difficult the Path became, he was always grateful to be a witcher, to have Geralt and Lambert as brothers and Vesemir as the father his heart had cried for. They were his family and he would give his life for his wolven pack without question or hesitation.

Geralt and Ciri had left that morning without telling anyone, and were soon followed by the sorceress Yennifer and the sage Avallac'h portalling out. Eskel finally felt like he could begin to breath again now that most of their visitors had left, yet he wished they had stayed till the other threat had been dispatched as well.

The scarred witcher was concerned. He had found the tracks of someone who didn't belong in the valley, someone whose boot soles were shod with dimeterium and silver. This someone had spied on the keep a mere five days prior, just after the lethal battle with the Hunt. The letters found by the Bear witcher had confirmed that Witch Hunters, sent by the Church of the Eternal Fire were on their way, and it wasn't a picnic they were after. Eskel was well acquainted with the sick hatred and unreasoning fear that drove the church and its police body of thugs, rapists and murderers.

Hiding their traces would only postpone the inevitable confrontation between witchers and the Eternal Fire. No, it would be best to let them come and fight under terms the witchers set on their own home ground. When Eskel found the cairns left by the Witch Hunter scout, he left them in place, ensuring they created a leading string straight to Kaer Morhen's front door.

He was looking forward to fighting them, he admitted to himself, wanting more than anything else to cripple them and destroy their power in the north. He wanted to ensure no one else was ever beaten and tortured by them again. Eskel didn't realize he was growling until a chorus of wolves joined him, pacing him as he jogged the Gauntlet toward home. He picked up the pace, not out of fear, but from fierce determination to be the alpha and give the canids a run they wouldn't forget.

The scarred man's growls turned to low grunts as he raced across the tops of moss covered logs made slick with mountain mists and over paths twisted with stones and roots. Eskel's gambeson flashed scarlet and black as he plunged down scree covered ravines and let his momentum carry him up the other side, amidst the sharp fangs of boulders. The witcher loped with the wolves beneath that gloaming canopy of old growth forest and became one with them, holding the singleness of purpose to protect what was his, to defend his land, his home and his brothers from the interlopers. He hurled across a narrow crack in the rocks, a red winged raven taken flight on the wind, then burst forth onto the road that led to the castle gates. The pack that had paced him for the last six miles stopped at the edge of the forest, panting. Their yellow eyes followed Eskel as he strode across the drawbridge, then they faded one by one into the murky thicket like ashen smoke.

The scarred one strode into the lower practice yard, his bootheels raising sparks amongst the flagstones. Letho and Kozin were sparring, the Bear wielding his enormous Zweihänder in sweeping arcs around his body, and the Serpent standing en garde florentine, with two short blades whirling in an intricate double figure eight too swift for the eye to follow. Their blades clanged and the titans surged against each other, each seeking a weakness in their opponent and finding none. They clashed together again, then sprang apart, circling like wolves, their blades in constant motion. Kozin dropped a series of rapid and hard attacks on Letho, forcing the big Viper back four paces. Letho countered with a spinning pirouette and thrust that Kozin caught behind him on the flat of his blade. The combatants parted, then came at each other, then parted again in their finely tuned and deadly dance. Metal shrieked against metal, whirring death struck, retreated then struck again and Eskel wondered that the ground didn't shudder when the giants slammed together. Letho suddenly rolled under Kozin's twirling sword toward his injured left leg, striking a light, scoring line across the other man's torso. The adversaries parted, saluted each other and sheathed their blades, then pounded each other on the back as they laughed about their deadly contest.

"Excellent footwork, boys!" growled the old witcher from his perch on the low stone wall surrounding the lower bailey. "What a demonstration! Mark my words, young Tolly, only expert swordsmen with the finest control can ever spar with sharpened blades." Vesemir dropped his hand on the boy's shoulder, " You have much to learn before you are ready to match either of them even with a wooden practice sword, but we'll get you there, son. We'll get you there, indeed!"

The boy's shining eyes sought the approval of his taciturn father, who leaned against the curtain wall. Jad Karadin just nodded in agreement and said nothing. Tolly was sad, but he was growing accustomed to the silent man his adopted father had become.

"Teach me too, uncle Vesemir!" Piped the shrill voice of the little girl, Greta, who had been standing by her papa, holding one of his hands. Her chestnut curls tossed around her china doll face as she bounced in excitement.

"Uncle Vesemir, eh? Your extended family keeps growing, old man." said Eskel as he approached his mentor.

The eldest one laughed and said, "Lambert's doing, I'm sure." Then to the tiny child whose energy thrummed out of her little body, "Yes, Greta, we'll teach you too. Just ask Ciri when she comes back, girls can be witchers too."

Eskel hadn't seen his teacher so full of life since Geralt had first brought Cirilla to them .. was it seven years ago or eight? There were a multitude of orphans now, all over Velen and No Man's Land, from the never ending wars. Maybe it was time to start bringing them in again, teaching them witcher methods and ideologies. It would keep Vesemir young and give him purpose. As far as Eskel was concerned, the bloody trials could be left in the dust, but the witchers had a way of life, a culture that was worth preserving. If they lived through what was to come. He had every reason to believe their adversaries were going to strike in force at any time.

"The Hunters have found us." Said Eskel in a quiet undertone to Vesemir. "We've got to finalize our plans."

Nodding his head and watching Jad show his son and daughter how to hold their wooden swords, Vesemir replied, "We'll discuss it immediately, get everyone gathered in the main hall. It's nearly lunch time anyway."

* * *

Was it only seven days ago, the company had gathered in this very room and discussed strategy for the fight with the Wild Hunt? Keira sat at Lambert's right hand, snuggled under his arm, and listened while the witchers revealed another threat coming up the valley toward them. She KNEW she should have left immediately after that last battle. This fight was more hers than the last one had been, but she wanted to run from the Witch Hunters and put as much distance between herself and them as she could. Lambert had needed her, however, and she felt tied to him in a way she didn't care to explain.

It was far more than physical intimacy. True he had avoided her the first week she had been in residence, trying to wheedle from him an agreement to do some work for her. When she had saved him from certain death at the hands of the Hunt, however, she felt the fine threads of fate tighten about herself and binding her to him irrevocably. Oh, they had been there all along, and she recognized that the moment she decided to take Geralt up on his invitation, but it wasn't until Lambert had kissed her in this very hall that she realized their fates were inextricably intertwined. She felt strongly that if she had not come, he would now be dead, a thought she instinctively shied away from.

This young witcher, so scathing and sarcastic, wasn't a man to trifle with, nor to cross and she had, indeed, played with fire when she had toyed with him. Then those silver strands of fate had grown taught and she was well and truly snared. Strangely, she found she didn't mind that so very much and the less she struggled against those bindings, the happier she was. Keira didn't believe in love, at least not for a brazen sorceress like herself who was accustomed to using people as she saw fit to achieve her own goals, but she did understand mutual comfort and appreciation.

Vesemir rose from his seat at the table and paced up and down it's length before speaking. "We've come through a desperate time, in much better shape than I thought we would." He began. "Our gate is ruined and won't hold intruders out of the keep. What's more, we don't have time to fix it. We can assume there will be a substantial force coming, considering the letter Kozin intercepted, so I want that drawbridge rigged to blow before they can get across. Better to keep them out and make them work for every inch they gain than let them come through our front door. Letho, you have the most experience with making bombs, so you can be in charge of that. Eskel, you help him." The two witchers nodded.

"Are those pits that Ves and Roche dug still in place?" He looked around the group.  
"Yeah. We haven't gotten around to filling them up yet." Answered Arek. "We have the Hunt's weapons now, too, so we can improve on them and make the pits even more deadly."

"Good. you and Kozin get to work on that. Karadin. How are you at alchemy?"

The Cat witcher shrugged "Good enough."

"You ever hear of Mahakaman Fire?" Jad indicated he had "Then you will be mixing that up. We need several barrels of it. Micah can show you where you can find large vats. We need to hide the lab, make it inaccessible in case the Witch Hunters get in. Keira, child, can you cast illusions?"

"I can, of course, but what exactly are you needing?" She sat up straighter next to Lambert.

"I want it to appear there is no lab at all." Said the old witcher, "I want the door down into the dungeons erased to their eyes but useable by us. Can you do that?"

"It isn't my magical forte, but I should be able to cobble something believable that will last for a few hours." she replied.

"That's good enough. There was talk of moving the lab out of the keep entirely, but we don't have time for that, and I would rather it stay here, along with Micah. We can't protect her across the valley so easily if we get stormed." The old man sank his chin on his chest then looked at Lambert. "Lambert, you are to stay out of the main fight, but I want you to stick with Micah and the kids when it starts. We'll establish a watch order. I don't want us taken by surprise. Ok, we've got a lot to do, let's get to it."

Lambert grimaced and stood, rubbing his left side, the arm still in a sling held tight to his chest wall. He watched as the rest of the witchers and Micah left for their assigned tasks. Keira had been giving him magical treatments every day since the battle, but it took time for even witcher bones to heal. The man still felt he was being shuffled off and didn't like it one bit.

Keira turned to him and nibbled his chin. "Don't fret, darling. Just because you won't be out on the battlements doesn't mean you'll miss all the fun."

He grumbled, "I was just appointed babysitter. I'm the fucking babysitter now. Can't you make me heal any faster?"

"I could, but it would give you more problems than it would solve, not the least of which would be permanent weakness on your left side and quite possibly nerve damage." She ran her hand across his injured clavicle and down his chest playfully, "Better you heal fully and accept you can't be a hero when those hunters arrive."

He put his good arm around her hip and pulled her close. "Mmm I suppose you're right. I'm no good to you as a cripple."

"That's right!" She teased, grinning into his face, "I need you hale and hearty to be my personal body guard when we leave here and I intend to work you very hard indeed!"

He smirked down into her face, moving his hand over the mound of her buttocks as he kissed her nose. "I think I need some physical therapy."

"You are incorrigible!" she laughed, then headed toward their room with him in tow.


	32. Destiny?

' _What a foul mess.'_ Thought Drummond, standing at attention in the ranks of the Redanian Seventh Special Foot as they assembled in formation before the aelderman's fine house in Khemmerstock. He wasn't a man who subscribed to fanaticism of any sort and had, as of late, been questioning Radovid's behavioral idiosyncrasies, albeit in the privacy of his own thoughts. These Eternal Fire loons scared him. But orders were orders and here he stood, receiving instructions on a forced march to the witchers' keep. He didn't like that either. His da, a sailor, had been saved from a gaggle of harpies seventeen years ago by a Bear school witcher when Drummond had barely been a newborn at his mother's breast.

The monster slayer had claimed the law of surprise for his services and when Da got home, he found his wife suckling a babe he hadn't known was on the way. They were a family who honored their obligations and knew their duty to providence. According to his da, there had been more than one male who had become witchers from their line, though the last had been his great great grandsire's youngest brother. Drummond had been raised to believe he would be taken to the witchers in due time, his head filled with the weight of such a pre-ordained fate. But it had never come to pass.

The soldier had joined Temeria's infantry three years ago when his family's home in Kerak had been decimated by Nilfgaard's advance. His sister had been raped to death by the Black Ones and his parent's heads had been set on pikes. What was Radovid thinking to insist that witchers and mages were the enemy? It wasn't the monster slayers killing innocent civilians. It wasn't sorceresses burning their hovels to the ground. The young soldier's face must have given away some hint that his thoughts had strayed from the briefing by Lieutenant Grigar who strutted before them.

"You!" bellowed the man. "Boy, you got something else on your mind?"

"Sir, no sir!" responded Drummond in the manner of all soldiers to their superiors the world over.

"You think this is a joke? You don't like where your king sends you? Shall we pack you back to your ma?" the officer made it a snide innuendo.

"Sir, no sir!" he barked again, standing up straighter, looking straight ahead even when his platoon commander got right in his face. If they even suspected the turn his mind had taken recently, they would draw and quarter him before the entire assembled company.

The lieutenant resumed his briefing, detailing the route they would take into the mountains, what kind of bivouacs they would utilize and injunctions to bring extra socks. Wet socks were the death of a foot soldier any time of year, Drummond knew, but sopping footwear in a frigid environment was a special kind of infantry hell. He had marched over the Kestrel Mountains last winter with his unit to overtake Kaedwen and learned all he ever wanted to know about that kind of damnation. It wasn't quite winter yet, but September would be in it's death throes once they arrived at the mountain fortress and October would deliver snows to the passes.

The troops were finally released to relax in their field tents and wandered back toward the edge of town where their tent city had been erected. Townsfolk viewed them with some suspicion. The war was a long way from them this close to Aed Gynvael, so the presence of troops and a large force of witch hunters raised anxiety in the local population.

Drummond dropped down on his bedroll with a huff and rested his arms on his knees. He pulled out the old charm his da had given him on his sixth birthday and held it like a talisman. According to the old sailor, the witcher had given him this in exchange for his matrimonial medallion, the two men splitting the chains between their charms so the family would recognize the witcher when he came to collect his payment at the appropriate time.

The young man knew the details of his amulet by heart, closing his eyes and picturing it as it swung in his fingers. The chain, actually parts of two different sets of narrow chain links, one of silver and one of the same dark metal as the charm, fit easily over his head and suspended the pendant at his breastbone. The medal itself was pie shaped and looked like it had been part of a set. One side was imprinted with the word _'bhràith'_. Drummond had never shown his keepsake to anyone else outside his own family and often wondered where it's fellows lay. His father's savior had failed to appear after his sixth birthday and He didn't know what to think any more. All his life, he expected his destiny to come calling for him, but it never showed it's face. What was a man supposed to do when that happened? Everything about this mission felt just as off kilter as the rest of his life had been. What kind of destiny was it that had him going to destroy a witcher fortress when he was supposed to have been a witcher himself?

From his earliest memories, his father had retold the story of the harpies and how his ma would have been a widow without the intervention of one of the mutants. Then Da would tell again the stories that had been passed down to him from HIS father about men of their line who had been chosen. Every one of their blood, according to family legend, had embraced the changes in the mutation process. His parents disappointment in the absence of the witcher to whom he was owed was second only to his own.

Tucking the talisman away, the soldier flopped to his back and settled his hands under his head, turning his thoughts to the witch hunters. Now there was a group full of gob knobbled idiots if he ever saw one. Most of their number were snot nosed kids who had never even held a sword before, let alone been seasoned in combat with one in their hands. The training being conducted here wouldn't bring them up to snuff and now they were to head up the Gwenllech in the morning. Drummond thought this enterprise was doomed and he didn't know that throwing his life away with them was such a good idea. It was one thing to fight with the Red and White Eagle against Nilfgaard and the Scoia'tael, another entirely to run on a fool's mission to murder folks whose purpose it was to protect the innocent, even if that aid did come at a premium. For the first time since joining the Redanian army, Drummond questioned his own resolve to follow the orders given him by his commanding officers.

* * *

Waiting was the hardest, so the witchers trained and prepared for the defense of the castle. Micah worked on her research when she wasn't perfecting sign control or practicing combat drills. Over the last two months she had progressed from the simple forms of the signs to more complex variants and could now hold a quen shield for up to forty seconds before she had to let it drop. Her aard was very strong and capable of knocking multiple adversaries off their feet. Vesemir warned her to be careful and not try to cast too many signs in quick succession or of very long duration. Even fully realized witchers could dangerously deplete their stamina if they weren't conservative. At least her signs were strong. If she had to depend on swords to earn her keep in the world, she would soon starve and Micah thought it a very good thing she had other skills. The Continent may not need geneticists yet, or appreciate witchers, but healers were in high demand.

Micah was taking her turn standing watch on the battlements, looking over the valley toward the west, when Arek found her.

"Arek." she smiled, not turning toward him. Of all the witchers at Kaer Morhen, she could identify his tread on the stones, having become so intimately attuned to him in the scant weeks they had been here she couldn't fathom having lived without him. He stepped behind her and engulfed her in his arms, dropping a kiss onto the top of her head.

" _Ceádmil, Micah, álainn'pìos aep enaid'me."_ He murmured into her hair.

She loved it when he spoke the elder tongue to her. Micah turned in Arek's embrace and wrapping her arms around his waist, rested her head on his breast bone so she could hear the slow thump of her witcher's heart. _"Ceádmil, Arek, aep me croi'dóiteáin."_ She breathed in his scent, reveling in it. "It can't be long now, can it?" She asked, her words muffled by his gambeson.

Arek wrapped her in the folds of his cloak, cocooning them together in it's warmth, and stroked her back with his large hands. "It could be any time. We've been patrolling the perimeter of Kaer Morhen land, watching the trace that leads here and the road that passes us by. I should think we'll hear them long before they get that far. They won't find us easy marks, you know. We are well set to resist a siege while they will have to camp in the woods if they think to wait us out. Then again, we are talking about witch hunters. They may think we'll just let them in because they demand it on authority of the Eternal Fire."

She snorted a laugh as she looked up at him and wrinkled her nose. Turning, she snuggled her back into him and continued to watch down the valley. "It won't be like the Wild Hunt," she murmured. "They had one goal and the rest of us just stood in their way. Their aim wasn't our extinction, it was to acquire Ciri. If they had come with the intention of destroying us, I doubt any of us would have survived."

"We'll survive this time, too, don't worry about that. These are only humans and any one witcher is the equal of seven men in a fight." He began to stroke her body under his cloak, soothing, and yet not as she stretched like a cat beneath his carresses.

"I remember all the corpses piled around you at Gray Bog, Arek. Even a witcher can be laid low when a man with an ax attacks him from behind." She couldn't help the worry that tinged her voice.

"I'll make sure I always have a wall or another witcher behind me, then." He smiled down at her as he cupped her breast in his palm.

"Damn, you two, get a room." purred the silky rumble of the Serpent, Letho, as he ambled to the vantage point. "My turn for watch and I'm not into voyeurism."

"If you're jealous, I understand Eskel's goat is willing to keep you warm out here." snickered Arek.

"I wouldn't wanna deprive you of your other girlfriend." Letho's smirk was hideous.

Micah rolled her eyes. Living with this much testosterone in one castle got tedious sometimes. She grabbed Arek's hand and tugged him away from the watch wall before her witcher could respond to Letho's jibe

* * *

The combined Redanian and Witch Hunter forces left Khemmerstock before dawn on the fifteenth of September, in a drizzling downpour. The infantrymen didn't complain: they were used to marching in all kinds of weather at all hours of the day or night, putting one foot in front of the other and trudging on, singing cadence to make the miles speed faster while they were in the lowlands. The witch hunters, however, struggled to keep pace and were wont to moan and complain about the distance they were required to cover day by day.

They reached the foothills of the Blue Mountains within five days, then followed the river as closely as possible till they were near the trace that lead to the keep. Mountains were not so easy to march over if you were rout-stepping off a developed road, however. Even a carter's track was better than slogging up ridges and down draws in the wilds, so they used them as much as they could. The witch hunters' army settled into their final bivy point and started building the siege ladders and battering rams they would carry up the trace to use in the coming battle.

The witch hunter commandant lounged in the Lieutenant Grigar's tent, sipping at a mug of Kaedweni stout. Grigar reclined at his field desk with his feet up, flipping a dagger back and forth between his hands. The sun had dipped beneath the mountains two hours past.

"We've made better time than I expected, March, though your witch hunters are soft. They complain like Novigradi whores after the Fleet's shore leave." said the lieutenant, finally settling the dagger in his right hand and digging beneath the nails of his left with the tip.

"They may not be seasoned soldiers, but their loyalty to the Church and to King Radovid is unparalleled." responded March, rubbing his finger over his scarred face. "They will obey orders unquestioningly and are utterly committed to carrying out the plan."

"Yes, yes. We are to kill the mutants and take their secrets. We'll do so quickly enough. My scout reports there are only seven witchers, two women and two children at Kaer Morhen. This is little more than a training exercise for my men." Grigar sneered, "We have ninety in our ranks, March. Even if they settle in for a siege, they can't protect every inch of their walls from us. We'll storm over and take them in force before they know what's hit them."

March said "I want us sitting in their great hall, swilling their ale at the end of three days. I want their heads on pikes and their women can be passed through the ranks before joining them. I don't care what's done with the brats."

"You are quite bloodthirsty, my friend. It will be done as you say, though. The King's orders were much like yours. Apparently, he has something against these Wolf school witchers, a private vendetta. I'm to present proof of the deed when I return to Tretegor."

Commandant March raised his tankard and saluted, "Here's to a swift victory, then, for Redania and the Eternal Fire!"

The lieutenant raised his glass of vodka and saluted back, thinking the sooner they were done here, the quicker he and his men could return to the war front, where they could actually do some good for the Redanian cause.

* * *

Witchers could move soundlessly, especially in familiar environs, and this particular witcher was like smoke in the darkness. Eskel crouched unseen behind the commander's tent, listening raptly to the plans being made by the Commandant and the lieutenant. The Wolf witcher was left in no doubt that the odds were staggering and the enemy was well prepared. But the witchers were ready, forewarned of exactly what they were facing and when it would descend upon them. The scarred man left as silently in the darkness as he had come and returned to the keep.


	33. Midnight At The Dance

Mist hung about the witch hunters' camp, entangled with with smoke from the camp fires. Lieutenant Grigar and Belleville March had decided to wage some psychological warfare on the witchers, not bothering to hide their position from their target. Sergeant Mossely, the Lieutenant's right hand man, came along the ranks of tents to speak with the troops, informing them to sleep in the day while they could. A strategy briefing was scheduled for noon, don't be late, they were enjoined. Ten of the Seventh Special Foot would lead teams of the witch hunters during the battle. The other ten soldiers were required for a secret mission. Drummond's ears pricked up at that and he asked for details.

"You come to the commandant's tent in an hour and you'll find out all about it. It's strictly volunteer, but we need good men on it." Mossely nodded then moved off to speak with the other groups that dotted the hillside.

Water steamed in his cup on the small fire he shared with two other Redanian Seventh Special Foot Infantrymen as he contemplated this special mission. Drummond's fellows laughed and joked about what was to come, what they would do to their foes, how they would leave their mark on the ruins of the fortress and ensure no witchers ever arose again. These two were devotees of the Church of the Eternal Fire and were eager to shed blood. In fact, they worried there would be nothing left for them to destroy once they got their chance. As the time drew closer Drummond knew he wouldn't be able to raise his sword against the witchers. He was contemplating blatant treason and desertion against his comrades in arms, men he had fought alongside for the last several months.

The young infantryman pulled his water from the edge of the fire and added some dry tack, a little dried chipped beef, some sage he had snagged on the way into the mountains and just a pinch of the precious salt that was part of his monthly allotment of rations in Radovid's army. As his breakfast cooked, he pulled out his charm and worried the thing between his thumb and forefinger. He toyed with the idea of throwing his lot in with the witchers, but they were more likely to kill him on sight if he approached them, besides, it was broad daylight and he had no chance of leaving the assembled company without being seen. Maybe it would mean his death, and so what if it did, but he would turn his coat and join the witchers when it would avail them the most aid, after his comrades had started the siege. He decided he had to be part of the special detachment.

Letting nothing show on his face, Drummond ate his breakfast in silence, allowing the conversation of his fellows to flow over him unabated. He would go to the briefing and find out what his role would be, then make his own plans from there.

* * *

The horses were moved near the main keep when the witchers rigged the drawbridge and gate to blow up and bring down part of the gatehouse. The bottom of the moat was spiked with old weapons sticking up every which way and coated with poisons. Barrels filled with Mahakaman fire and oil were set at every crenelated embrasure and Letho had fashioned some very large bombs, filled with sharp bits of metal about an inch long, set near the two trebuchet the witchers had built to fling death on the advancing forces. Three scorpions sat ready to fling flaming ballista bolts into the enemy as well. All along the trails around the keep, pits had been dug and lined with poisoned spikes and covered with woven grass mats that supported a very thin layer of dirt to hide them.

Jad Karadin had outdone himself with incendiary oils he packed into empty wine bottles and demijohns then corked with the ragged ends of old sheets. He called them Imperial Cocktails and had demonstrated their use in the upper courtyard.

"Just light it and lob it. Huh." Grunted Kozin.

"Not as efficient as Dancing Star, but doesn't require so much precision to make, either." Vesemir inspected one of the bottles, wrinkling his nose at the noxious smell of the concoction inside. "Wouldn't be any use in a hunt, though. Too likely to spill it all over the place."

"It will do for what we need." said Eskel, also examining one of the 'cocktails'. "This should work to whittle out the ranks. Most of them are witch hunters, and new recruits at that, but there's about twenty trained Redanian soldiers." growled the scarred man. "It's heavy odds with the number of people they have to throw at us, but these just might equalize things a bit."

"We've still got those gas pockets that Ermion opened up. That can be put to good use if we do it so the explosion will send shrapnel into the enemies." Murmured the eldest witcher.

"A couple of barrels filled with that Mahakaman Fire and old bits of swords should do the trick." Said Letho.  
"Igni the gas pockets with the barrels set on top and BOOM, flaming slice and dice!"

"If they don't tear Kaer Morhen down, we'll do the job for them." Scoffed Kozin, but he agreed with the others. These measures were necessary and could turn the tide of battle.

The men moved into the keep and found Keira, Micah and Lambert discussing the merits of hiding the stairs leading down to the bowels of the fortress. Keira and Micah were in favor of covering the entrance with an illusion of a rock pile while Lambert thought hiding just the lab would be sufficient.

Arek said "Hide the door entirely. In fact, make it look like there's never been anything there. Better the witch hunters not even know there is a dungeon. Micah and the kids can hide down there when the fighting starts."

"How does this even work?" Micah wanted to know. "Does this just make it LOOK like nothing's there but people can go back and forth or what?"

Keira replied, "It will be a short term illusion. I haven't the reagents or time, really, to set up anything permanent. That sort of thing takes months to prepare for and is terribly draining to pull off. Still, while this illusion is active, it will seem real and should last about twenty-four hours." She wandered around the short stairwell that led to a heavy door. "I'll modify the spell to enable any of us to pass through it with no problem for it's duration. Unless our enemies have an artifact like the Eye of Nehaleni, or some way to detect magic they will never even know it's there."

* * *

Roughly drawn schematics littered the field table in the lieutenant's tent. Ten pairs of eyes soaked the information in as the plan was sketched out by the scout and the sergeant.

"Alrighty-o, so this be thar front door here." The grizzled NCO tapped a bit on the largest picture. "T'were bashed in at some point, so it's worthless to 'em for keepin' us out. But we know they be doin' sommat there. They knows we's a-comin' so s'not like we can just sashay up an' ask fer tea." The man scratched his nose with the stick he had been using as a pointer, then tapped it down again. "Our boys'll be rainin' hell on th' front here, 'round th' curtain wall, usin' ladders an' such t'get o're to th' inside iffn we needs it, see?" Ten heads nodded their understanding.

"Now here," the stick jabbed at a portion well away from the front of the keep, "this here is a section 'at was damaged, but repaired recently. Tha's where you lads come in. Yer ter foller th' curtain wall, see? Foller it around the keep, t' here. An' ye are NOT t' try te breach th' wall. Yer t' climb o're it, see? An' move t'gether an git inside th' keep."

"We're not to fight, Sarge?" Asked an infantryman.

"Well, not t' say there may not be some fightin' fer ye, lad, but yer job is diff'rent. These here witchers 'ave secrets that the Church wants. 'Tis yer job te find 'em and make sure we take 'em back te Hemmelfart in one piece. Commandant March'll be goin' with ye as will Willis, here. He's familiar with the path ye're te take. Ye'll be leavin' a'fore the moon rides high so's to hide ye. Then, yer te wait till we gives th' signal. Three short blasts on th' horn follerd by two long'uns. When ye hear that, yer te scuttle o're that wall. Th' commandant'll take o're from here."

March stepped up to the map and regarded the gathered infantry soldiers with only mild contempt. "Right then. We know these witchers have a laboratory where they conduct unholy experiments on kidnapped children. In fact, we know of two they are holding hostage now. Our job, men, is to find that lab and strip it. The Hierarch wants to know what they are doing in detail so we can perfect our methods against them."

"So, sir," said a soldier to Drummond's left, "We's ta rescue the kids and take the lab wif us? What about ther sorcerers?"

"There's two women in the keep." March answered, "We are fairly certain one is the sorceress, Keira Metz, who is wanted by the Church for crimes against nature. You will be provided with dimiterium to shield you from her spells. The other is unknown, probably a civilian kidnapped to care for the children until the witchers could put them through their evil mutations."

The growls and grumbles amidst the gathered team indicated what the men thought of these dastardly witchers who would terrorize and kidnap innocent women and children. Drummond kept his thoughts to himself and let his brows crash over his eyes. He had, of course, heard of Keira Metz. She had been Foltest's advisor once. Being a sorceress, the witch hunters would want to torture her, then hang her on a stake and burn her alive. Drummond didn't trust them not to do the same to the other woman, fanatics that they were, and manufacture a reason to justify their actions.

March outlined the plan to circle the outer curtain wall around to the breach, steal over it and infiltrate the keep. They were to avoid engaging the enemy until the lab had fallen. Once the keep was secured, they would help mop up the operation. The commandant seemed sure of victory.

"You men are excused from the briefing at noon and from other activities." Said Lieutenant Grigar, "You are to return to your bedrolls and rest. We move out at full dark, before the moon rises."

The assembled soldiers dispersed and Drummond followed them out of the tent. He was still amazed how easily he could consider betraying his comrades, though truth be told, he hadn't been with the Seventh for that long. His Temerian unit had been smashed at Gray Bog last spring when Nilfgaard had over-run Vellen and taken Vizima. He had been damn lucky to be smashed over the head with a Black'un's shield and fall as if dead, covered by the corpses of his brothers in arms. When the cold light of dawn had awakened him, he had crawled across the Pontar and joined Radovid's army there, hoping at some chance for retribution against Nilfgaard.

The young infantryman held no fealty at all to King Radovid and would as soon skewer the mad monarch's head on his pikestaff as bow to his hoary, royal ass. He was beginning to feel that way about everything related to Redania, especially the Church of the Eternal Fire and the witch hunters. Drummond damned the Redanians for thinking witchers and sorceresses were more important than repelling the advances of an evil empire. Of course, the war was stretching on and on, and every little bit of ground gained came at an exponentially higher cost. Propagandists in the church found fertile soil in the minds of war-weary people to plant seeds of hatred against non-humans and anyone who wielded arcane power. The result of this was, of course, the pyres where the scapegoats were immolated in the name of the Eternal Fire.

Drummond had already decided on his course. He absolutely would not, could not stand with Redania or the Church of the Eternal Fire against the witchers. When his group went over the wall at Kaer Morhen, he would do everything he could to disrupt their progress and ensure they didn't find these witcher secrets. Who knew what the wild workings of fate would wreak, perhaps this was his destiny all along. He lay back on his pallet and let himself sleep until it was time to leave.

* * *

The sun had set over the high mountain vale, striking the stones of the witcher's keep golden in its dying rays, gilding it with the remembrance of past glories. Six witchers sat, strung along the parapets of the lower curtain wall in silent meditation, maintaining a state of resting watchfulness. Micah and the children were hidden in the lab while Lambert meditated at the head of the stairs leading into the dungeon. Keira rested on the battlements of the south tower, where she would have a good vantage point to see everything that went on in the baileys and on the walls. All was in readiness as their final vigil began.

An hour after midnight, as the moon breasted the mountains, the clatter of many armed men resounded through the valley. The witchers stood, silent and ready for the defense of their keep. Letho perched on the southwest watch tower adjacent to the barbican, ready to blow it to hell. Vesemir was stationed further along toward the south and was the first to see them as the witch hunter's army marched up the road where it narrowed on it's approach to the fortress. The massif rose on their right hand and a steep gully fell away on their left, providing a natural bottleneck that stretched their forces along the road. The old witcher gave the signal that their visitors had arrived. In the lead were two mounted men, a Redanian army officer and a witch hunter. The mounted men called a halt to the column as they drew near the drawbridge.

Letho called out. "We don't want trouble, nor do we fancy a fight. You take yourselves off and we'll let you go. No harm, no foul."

A roar of laughter erupted from the gathered company as the mounted witch hunter road slightly forward. "We are here to bring divine retribution on your unholy lives, witcher. You 're badly outnumbered, yet you dare to give us ultimatums? Surrender the women and children and we'll make sure the rest of you die quickly. Your refusal to comply can only end badly for all of you."

"So," said the big witcher, "You refuse our attempt to parlay a peaceful resolution?"

"We came here to end your unnatural existence and rid the world of your corruption." roared the witch hunter.

"I was kinda hoping you would see it like that." Letho's grin was hideous as he picked up a wine bottle and lit the rag stuffed in it's neck. He didn't hurry, nor were his motions tense when he lobbed the bottle so it landed just between the two horses, spreading the sticky liquid it carried into a wide splash that stuck to fetlocks and bellies. Flames from the lit cloth exploded with a whoosh as the fire streamed along the ground at the horses hooves. The animals screamed in fear as they bucked and reared, throwing their riders to the ground. The Redanian officer gained his feet first and pointed to the portcullis with a command that had a surging wall of humanity leaping forward to do his bidding.


	34. The Witch Hunter's Ball

" _Move swift as the Wind and closely-formed as the Wood. Attack like the Fire and be still as the Mountain."  
― Sun Tzu, The Art of War _

* * *

Drummond stood with his group, pressed against the wall at the repaired breach, listing to the hushed whispers of Belleville March giving last minute orders. The young infantryman reviewed in his mind what he would do once over the wall. A last minute change in plans had their numbers swell from ten to twenty. Fifteen of them would engage whatever witchers were in their way and the other five would enter the keep and find the lab. Drummond would be in the former group.

The plan was to attack from both sides of the main keep. Lieutenant Grigar led thirty men from the opposite wall of the upper courtyard. The situation was very bleak for the people inside the fortress considering how badly outnumbered they were. Drummond felt a deep sense of despair, but held his course. He would fight with the witchers and at least die with integrity.

They heard an explosion from the front of the castle and saw the sky light up to the west of their position, shortly afterward, they heard their signal - two short blasts of a horn. Siege ladders were put in place and they began to stream over the wall and toward Drummond's destiny.

* * *

Micah was reading the children a story. Greta liked the small woman because she reminded her of her mother. The little girl curled into the doctor's lap, popped her thumb in her mouth and twirled a chesnut curl around her fingers. Tolly rambled around the laboratory, kicking at table legs and sighing hugely. The boy was overtired and sulky.

"Tolly, love, sit down with me here and listen to the story. Let's find out what happens to Princess Ariana." coaxed Micah gently.

"I don't want to find out about any dumb princess. I want to go fight the bad men with my papa." The boy's look was mulish and Micah sighed. "They need another sword fighter! Why do I have to stay down here?" His face was creased in angry lines.

"Sweetheart," coaxed the geneticist, "you are doing very well in your sword lessons, but you aren't ready to face an angry mob just yet. It's best we three stay out of the way so your papa and the other witchers can protect us."

Tolly was mutinous, stomping over to the wall by the doorway and sitting with his arms crossed over his knees and his head down. Micah thought the children needed to go to sleep, it was well past their bedtime, but they were as on edge as she was, knowing what the men faced outside.

It took some time, but she managed to get both Greta and Tolly to curl up together and rest on a pallet in her lab. But there was no rest for the little geneticist. She was too worried about the outcome of this fight. Sighing, she tried to focus on work, compiling data from her latest round of assays. She had proven her theory that dwarves, elves and humans were, in truth, the same species. She couldn't wait to tell Avallac'h.

Micah decided she would have to get some samples of a different sort from the witchers to determine why they were sterile. There were so many things that could go wrong in the human reproductive system, from hormonal imbalance to physical damage within the plumbing, any of which could have been disrupted during the Trial of the Grasses. Witchers didn't seem to suffer from a lack of libido, at least Arek didn't, and Micah's face held a secret smile at the thought. The fault for their sterility lay elsewhere.

She had lost herself in work for several hours, blocking out the world, when she felt the ground shudder and heard a muted explosion. Micah knew the bridge had been blown and the witch hunters had arrived. The children woke up with cries of alarm. Greta flew into Micah's arms, quivering and crying in fear. Five minutes later, they heard the roar of two more explosions. Small pebbles and dust rained down on them from the ancient fortress and Micah choked back the thought they might be buried alive.

"They're going to get us, Micah! They're going to get in and kill us!" The little girl began to panic. Micah had her hands full, soothing the frantic child and didn't watch Tolly as closely as she should have been. When her head was turned away, the sturdy five year old silently scampered out the door and headed for the stairs.

* * *

Letho waited till there was a decent sized crowd on the bridge before he dropped a dancing star bomb right where he had planned it beforehand, where it would cause a cascading reaction with the large barrels strapped under the bridge and blow it and everyone on it sky high. Half the stables would come crashing down, too. The explosion was fearsome, throwing a fireball high above the battlements of the donjon and raining ash and fragmented stone in all directions. The Viper had taken cover behind an embrasure, ducking his head down as the shock wave passed over him. The screams of the witch hunters filled his twisted soul with satisfaction as flames reflected off his gruesome smile. Ten men were tossed and incinerated in the massive fireball.

Screaming a reverberating battle cry, he picked up a barrel of Mahakaman Fire and hurled it down onto the road where witch hunters milled about in panic. The flames licking along the sere grass of the road immediately ignited the contents of the shattered barrel and the roadway became an incinerating death trap. Letho bounded to the waiting scorpion, taking aim at the retreating combatants fleeing from the blazing roadway and letting loose one swift bolt equipped with a flaming cocktail strapped to it. Several more of the enemy were engulfed in fire as they retreated.

Along the battlements between Letho and Vesemir the tops of four siege ladders appeared. Vesemir poured oil down on the marauders swarming up one ladder and shot a steady stream of igni to roast them alive. Letho kicked another ladder away from the wall and sent it reeling drunkenly with a powerful blast of aard. He skewered the top most witch hunter reaching for the edge of the parapet from a third ladder as he did so. Suddenly, he felt a crossbow bolt hit him in the left shoulder, then another sprouted from his left thigh, sending him reeling back toward the crumbled edge of the curtainwall. He saw vesemir double over with a bolt in his gut.

Both witchers jumped down into the lower practice yard, away from the archers. Vesemir was breathing heavy , trying to yank the crossbow bolt from his gut, when Letho came to assist him. They heard the sound of a horn twice as they came together, knowing the enemy was about to overrun their position.

"Ready, old man?" Growled the Viper.

"Just do it, already. They're swarming over the wall." Gasped Vesemir. He grunted when the big witcher yanked bolt out of his abdomen, then swigged a dose of swallow. Twirling his sword he turned to face the gathering crowd of witch hunters who lined the parapets of the curtain wall before them. Letho pulled the bolt out of his leg and then his arm and prepared another dancing star bomb and waited for a few more men to top the battlement. He wanted to take out as many as possible with one blow. The sound of another blast from the upper practice yard ricocheted off stone walls as the big man tossed his bomb and watched the western curtain wall disintegrate under the witch hunters standing there as ten casks of Mahakaman fire erupted.

* * *

"Hell and damnation!" Cursed Eskel as he and Arek fought back to back with the witch hunters and Redanian soldiers pouring over the wall. They had dropped their Mahakaman Fire and burned a good portion of the invaders to cinders, but more still came. The scarred witcher was using a lot of stamina to deflect crossbow bolts from himself and the Manticore he fought beside. Thrust, parry, slash, counter strike, parry! The witchers' blades thrummed in the cold night air like hummingbird wings, the song counterpointed every so often with the dying cries of foolish men. If the enemy had only come at them with swords, this would be a simple matter of clean up, but the ploughing bastards had ten crossbowmen stationing themselves on the walls now. Eskel knew his signs were strong and he could keep them up for a while, but he was starting to feel the drain.

The Manticore whirled his blade and feinted at one opponent when another stabbed him under the arm, scoring fire along his triceps. He roared in rage and slung aard at the infantryman who had struck him. The soldier was blown off his feet and struggled to regain them when a witcher sword plunged into his breast, ending his life. More men swarmed into the upper practice yard as Arek and Eskel were surrounded by fifteen hunters. Another eight men wielded cross bows on the north-western section of the lower curtain wall where it joined with the inner curtain wall. If they could ignite those barrels stacked on the parapets, the two desperate men just might have a chance. Arek yelled at Eskel to throw a dancing star as a horn sounded from somewhere in the distance.

Hoping his aim was true, the scarred witcher tossed his grenade then swiftly raised quen shield around himself and his companion again. The bomb detonated the barrels piled on the parapet and flames engulfed the archers stationed there. The playing field was leveled and the witchers now stood than a fighting chance of surviving.

* * *

The sound of two short blasts on a horn rattled in the air over the clanging steel of battle just after echos of the bridge demolition faded into the night air. Kozin prowled the battlements of the inner curtain wall. He was just about to leap down and help Eskel and Arek when his sensitive hearing picked out the two short blasts of a horn. A shout from behind him at Savola's Breach alerted him to the danger there. As he lept down from the parapet and ran toward the breach, he felt the concussion of the blast from the upper practice yard as it thumped against stone, followed shortly by another blast from the lower practice yard.

' _DAMN witch hunters,'_ thought the big Bear as he tore toward the repaired hole in the upper wall, hauling his dark metal blade from his back and growling his predator's cry. They poured over the broken scree that had been piled up prior to the battle with the wild hunt, flowing into the side yard of the main keep. For a span of heartbeats, the witcher and the Redanian infantry soldiers stared at each other.

"Well what are ye waitin' for, boyos?" Roared the big Bear, "Let's dance! I'll whistle the tune and you can pay the piper with a witcher's mark!" Kozin's sneer was hideous.

His blade traced glittering trails as it arced in an intricate ballet around him. Fifteen men spread out to encircle the witcher, but five others split off from the crowd and headed to the keep.

* * *

Keira Metz held her spells until she knew they would do the most good. Standing on the upper battlements of the main keep, she could see the entire fight, and the sight of dozens of men pouring over the walls made her mouth go dry in fear. Vesemir and Letho were hard pressed, but holding their own, as were Eskel and Arek.

A series of explosions rocked the upper courtyard as the barrels of Mahakaman Fire were ignited from a witcher bomb tossed by Eskel. Keira dispassionately observed all but one of the crossbowmen screaming as they were engulfed in flames.

"I'll take care of you, witch hunter." she said aloud to herself as a single lightning bolt arced from her slender fingers to explode on contact with the man's head.

Another blast reverberated around the fortress, crumbling the curtain wall around the lower courtyard and burying the witch hunters who had stood upon it. The witchers were a sight to behold as they pushed themselves past their own physical limits to repel the invaders. Keira shivered in the night air as she watched. A horn sounded twice and she turned her head just in time to see a dark wave of men come over the wall at Savola's breach. There were about twenty of them who spread out in a circle around the enraged Bear who's massive Zweihänder cut deadly arcs before them.

Drawing off the power that hummed strongly from the land, the blond woman lifted her hands, creating a whirlwind around Kozin, shielding him from enemy swords while it lasted. She hoped it was enough. Jad Karadin was struggling with the large numbers of attackers streaming over the wall to the south.

* * *

They just kept coming! The Cat whirled and twisted as he dispatched man after man. Seeing on each countenance the face of Belleville March, Jad was pushed into an all consuming battle frenzy, desiring only to destroy his most hated enemy. He fought florentine, with two blades whirling in song about him in a beautiful and deadly choreography of death. Each stroke of his blade spoke to him of retribution for his Letty, each drop of blood he spilled was payment for a life stolen from her unjustly.

So intent was he on his foes, the Cat didn't spare attention for the blasts rocking the lower or upper practice yard, nor did he pay heed to the sounding of a horn near him. For all his prowess and primal rage, Karadin was overrun by the enemy and found himself pressed against the inner curtain wall desperately fighting for his life. For every one man he dispatched, two more took their place. Suddenly, half the hunters surrounding him were flung vertically into the air, then driven back to the ground with such force Karadin could hear their bones splinter. Jad saluted Keira Metz and then whirled to parry an incoming hit and ignite his foes with a sustained stream of igni.

* * *

Lambert prowled in the great hall, frustrated that he couldn't be with his fellow witchers. He heard the bridge go up in a great blast as old plaster and pebbles rained down from the shaken keep. A few minutes later, two more blasts rocked the old, crumbling structure. For all Lambert complained about Kaer Morhen, he didn't fancy it all coming down on top of him.

He heard the front door creak open and saw five men stride into the hall, led by a tall witch hunter with a fresh scar on his face.

"Well, well, well. What have we here?" Sneered the scarred witch hunter, a malevolent gleam in his eye as he surveyed the lone, injured witcher standing between him and his prize. "This will be easier than I thought it would be. Soon, all of you will be dead, you know. Might as well lay down that sword and accept your fate, you mutant freak."

Lambert snorted in derision. "Fuck you, too." He mocked as he drew his sword and twirled it in anticipation. He kept his stance low and balanced, compensating for his injured left side as he contemplated his strategy. He had limited use of his left hand, but he should be able to at least cast a respectable quen shield on himself. He drew arcs in the air with his blade, knowing the darkness of the keep was a liability to his enemy while he could see them clearly.

They flew at him as a group, four surrounding him at the command of the scarred man, and the young witcher lept to the brawl with a scream of challenge. Lambert parried the first of the four as their blade crashed down in a sweeping slice, then pirouetted away and thrust at the second, relishing the man's gurgled cry as his witcher's steel bit into the soft throat of his opponent. Twirling, he parried the thrust of a third man as he felt the blow of the fourth land across his shoulders. The young witcher cried in rage and pain as he flipped his blade in his hand, sank onto his back leg and thrust the wicked point through the man to his rear.

"Who's next? Come on you fucking bastards! Show me what you got. I don't have all day!"

Lambert moved in a lightning burst of speed and dispatched the third witch hunter, then turned to face the fourth as he heard the booted feet of several more race into the hall.

* * *

 **Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has been reading The Last Manticore. Currently, the early chapters are getting some much needed editing to improve their flow, grammar, spelling and readability.**

 **As for the story thus far … I'm glad you are enjoying the it! Sorry this chapter took longer to post than the previous ones have. This battle is very complex and I've a lot of points of view to consider. Please leave reviews and let me know how you like it :)**


	35. The Death of A Witcher

Snarling, the old Wolf and the big Viper fought back to back, dispatching enemy after enemy. There were only ten left after the wall collapsed, an easy crowd for two seasoned witchers. They made short work of the stragglers ensuring none escaped their blades.

"Let's get to the upper practice yard." said Vesemir, holding his belly where he had been pierced by the crossbow bolt. Letho nodded and the sprinted off to find Arek and Eskel.

Like their comrades in the lower practice yard, the scarred witcher and the Manticore had prevailed once the crossbowmen had been eliminated. Eskel had just completed a pirouette followed by a downward slice that severed head from shoulders of his last opponent when Vesemir and Letho arrived. The four witchers acknowledged each other and without speaking headed for the inner courtyard and the keep, knowing the battle still raged by the sounds of ringing steel.

* * *

' _Stupid grownups,'_ though the little boy as he sneaked up the stairs from the depths of the keep. _'I'm big enough to help my papa and protect the girls!'_ There was no one standing guard at the top. The room was empty of everything except crates and boxes of provisions for the winter.

Tolly stood for a moment, getting his bearings. Everything was dark except for the dim light of the waning moon through a window. He could hear the sounds of fighting echoing through old keep, and Lambert cursing at someone. The little boy pushed the tower door open and sneaked toward the front door of the castle, trying to catch a glimpse of the fighting. His heart was racing in excitement and he hoped to watch his papa beat the bad men. Just as he came around a stack of crates, a heavy hand grabbed his arm and yanked him off his feet.  
"Well, well, what DO we have here?" growled Bellville March, sneering down at the little boy, "A witcher's welp, and I know what to do with you." He grabbed Tolly around the waist, pinning his arms to his side and slapped a hand around the boy's mouth. "Where's that lab, boy. You take me there now and I won't kill you."

* * *

The Cat had multiple wounds that bleed freely over his arms, chest and back. He was feeling the strain of fighting so many enemies at once. Karadin's back was to the wall, witch hunters fanned out in a rough semicircle before him, pressing in as he whirled two swords to keep them at bay. A thin bolt of blue light streaked down from the sorceress, engulfing one of the men on the edge of the semi-circle, then jumped to another, then another, until five men were held immobile as electricity danced around them, ripping their nervous systems to shreds.

Letho and Eskel joined the fray, much to Karadin's relief, just as one soldier speared his right thigh with a sword tip. The Cat witcher cursed and served his own sword into the waiting throat of his assailant. Soon after, the remaining witch hunters lay dead around them and the only sounds of battle they heard came from inside the keep.

* * *

Twelve more men surrounded Lambert as the scarred witch hunter slipped by. Lambert snarled.

"Ploughin' bastards," He raged, "I don't have all day! Let's get to it!"

He was pressed back toward the dining hall, trying to keep something at his back so he wasn't surrounded, desperately parrying strikes and lunges. Despite his injuries, his sword flew in his hand like a hummingbird's wing, singing it's own song as he lashed out to kill the first man to step in too close.

"Who's next?" Roared the witcher, a hideous sneer on his face. The men came at him without mercy and he wasn't healed enough to avoid all their blows. For every hit they scored, he killed one of them. He was weakening, though, his strength failing.

* * *

Micah looked around in dawning horror. Where was Tolly? The lab door was cracked open and the boy was nowhere to be seen. The woman carried the little girl with her as she searched the basement. Her sense of dread increased when she found no sign of him and she turned to the stairs, heading up into danger. _'Oh God, please let him be safe!'_ she thought. She stepped out of the tower door and saw a shadowy form in the moonlight carrying a squirming bundle toward her.

Thinking fast, Micah set Greta on her feet and whispered for her to stay behind some crates. Sticking to shadows, the little geneticist planned what she would do, preparing to cast her sign at just the right time. She hid behind a stack of boxes on the other side of alcove from Greta and slowed her breathing, feeling like she was a loud bellows above the ringing of swords from the other side of the great hall. The man came even with her and she could see he wore the leather armor of a witch hunter. Stepping out behind him, she threw a short blast of igni at the back of his head, singing his hair and startling him into dropping the boy.

* * *

Men were screaming and dying around him as Drummond thrust his sword through one of the witch hunters. He didn't know how many of their force still lived after the burning oil and the fiery explosions, but everywhere he looked he saw the smoldering bodies of his fellow soldiers falling to witcher swords. There was a big witcher in the side yard swinging a large two hander with more grace and speed than Drummond had ever seen anyone handle a weapon like it before. The young man was spellbound as a wide swath was cut from the pressing combatants around the raging man. They couldn't get close enough to touch him. He was the whirling spectre of death with his beard soaked in blood from the gaping wound on his scalp and his eyes afire with primal rage. He snarled profanities at his enemies in the voice of thunder and mayhem, sending dread skittering along the young infantryman's nerve endings.

The boy attacked another witch hunter, hacking from behind and evening the odds against the witcher. Bile rose up in his throat at his own treachery, but he knew he was doing the right thing. He was sickened to be here at all. The remaining witch hunters pressed in on the big witcher and Drummond raised his sword, laying into them with a will.

"You fucking traitor!" screeched lieutenant Grigar as he barrelled into the yard, grabbing young infantryman by his gambeson and yanking him hard.

Drummond's sword came up as he pushed his commanding officer off him, snarling at the man. "This is wrong! We shouldn't be here!"  
"You thinking? What the hell! I didn't tell you think! Radovid didn't tell you think! I'll have your head, boy, and take it back to Tretegor on a pike!"

"What the ploughin' hell you waiting for, then!" Snarled Drummond, "Get it over with!"

The officer charged at him, hurling a flurry of feints and strikes that Drummond was hard pressed to defend himself from. He found his footing, though, and circled around Grigar, dodging in with a series of quick lunges and counter attacks. The lieutenant parried his last strike, then pirouetted, landing a punishing slash to the young soldier's right arm followed by a back hand blow to his face with the pommel of his sword. Drummond fell backward in the dirt, then, knowing the next blow would take his life. It never came.

* * *

March snarled as he dropped the child and whirled to face his attacker. He was dumbstruck to see a woman who wouldn't even come up to his chin, edging away from him. His smile was nasty as he drew his sword, snarling in fury at her. She stumbled out of his way, desperately hoping to avoid his blade. Tolly stared wide eyed for a moment, then ran for the door of the keep. The fight had spilled over toward the dining hall, away from the entrance, making the way clear for the child to surge out the front door. March swung at the woman and she barely managed to dodge the blow, thanking Vesemir for drilling her in footwork for the last month as she pirouetted neatly away from the raving witch hunter.

Greta screamed and scrambled out from behind the crates, screaming at the man attacking the doctor "No! No! Get away from her!"

Micah managed to grab the little girl out of the way just before March landed a hard kick to her head. She backed away from him and stumbled, holding the terrified child in her arms as the witch hunter advanced toward them with menacing steps. The scar across his face was lurid, even in the shadows, and his eyes wild as he raised his bastard sword above his head, ready to deliver a killing blow to woman and child.

Desperately, Micah cast a quen shield around herself and Greta, holding it with all her might as the sword swooped down. She could feel the drain on her reserves and hoped this worked. The blow struck against her bubble of force and was blasted away as it exploded, making March totter back. Micah scooped Gretta up and ran for the tower, hoping to gain the stairs before the witch hunter caught her. She was shaking and her legs felt like gelatin. She planned to knock her pursuer down the stairs with aard, but worried she wouldn't be able to put any oomph into it. That quen had sapped her strength alarmingly.

"Damn you, witch! You won't be so lucky to die quick now!" snarled the man, rushing after the retreating pair.

* * *

Eskel, Letho and Jad were ready to head inside when a small form pushed through the door of the keep and barrelled out, straight into Jad's arms.

"Papa! Papa! The bad man has doctor Micah and Greta!" The boy's breathless voice and tearstained face twisted inside Karadin as he gripped his son's shoulders.

"Go." Said Eskel, as the three of them followed Tolly through the door. They saw Lambert beset by too many witch hunters, fighting for his life.

"We'll take care of them, you get Micah out of trouble, Karadin." growled Letho. Jad nodded once and sprinted toward the laboratory, rage boiling in his heart.

There were still seven witch hunters surrounding the youngest witcher when Letho and Eskel charged in, leveling the playing field. The three witchers made short work of their enemy. The last of the invaders fell to Lambert's sword when Tolly rushed to his side and started yanking on his arm.

"Come on, come on, he's going to kill my papa! You have to help him!" The child was frantic.

* * *

Grigar was rent from behind by the Kozin's flashing blade and an instant later that blade was at Drummond's throat.

"Give me one good reason to spare ye!" Growled the big man. The witcher was sucking air in like a bellows, ready to plunge his sword into the boy lying on the ground before him.

Drummond looked up at the witcher and his breath froze in his throat as his eyes fixated on the medallion that dangled from his neck.

"You're a Bear witcher." said the young man, his voice tinged with awe.

"Aye, but that's not much of a reason." Kozin paused nonetheless, baffled by the kid's odd response. He reached down and hauled the injured soldier to his feet and as he did so, a pendant fell out of his gambeson. A memory hit the big Bear so hard he nearly stumbled, of forging the medallion that had been broken in thirds, of the brotherhood between himself and his two friends.

"Where did you get this! Speak quickly and don't lie to me, boy." the witcher's growl was so soft and low it resonated through Drummond's body like the whisper of an elven arrow.

"It was given to my da by a witcher when I was promised as a surprise child." he gulped.

"When and where." Kozin had his face mere inches from Drummond's and his eyes gleamed with intensity.  
"Se...seventeen years ago, sir. Witcher saved Da in the Skellige islands then came home with him to find me. Didn't know Ma was going to have me when he left."

"Where is that witcher now. Did he come back for you?"

"No, no he never returned. Waited for him all my life and he never showed up." The full force of Drummond's anger and confusion over that abandonment was blown out with his words, surprising the big witcher.

Kozin was rocked to his soul. Seventeen years ago his brother was alive? The man he thought dead this past century could still be alive, and in Skellige!

* * *

Greta screamed and clung to Micah's neck, throwing her off balance. They careered into the door frame just outside the tower and Micah fell heavily to her knees on stone flagging. She was gasping as she tried to rise, but the weight of the child in her arms was making it very difficult to get her feet under her. March sheathed his sword and smiled horribly at her, tugging his gauntlets more firmly on his hands.

"One little girl and one small woman," he sneered, "You think your parlor tricks are going to stop me? Listen to that! Hear it? You're losing. The witchers will all be dead in a few minutes. But I'm going to take my time with you, you bitch. When I'm done, you'll beg me to kill you!" He strode the few remaining feet and caught Micah in his left hand by her braid, tugging her roughly away from the door, not giving her a chance to regain her balance.

March swung her around and backhanded her, cracking the dimeterium clad knuckles of his gauntlet across her jaw so hard he split her lips open. Micah desperately tried to shield Greta, leaving herself vulnerable to his attack.

The little girl let go of the woman and scuttled away into the tower, pressing herself between storage boxes and crates nestled within the curve of the tower. She closed her tear filled eyes, but flinched every time the sharp sound of him hitting the doctor ricocheted off the stones.

The witch hunter had started pummeling her with a closed fist, beating her arms which had come up to shield her face and head from his blows.

"March!" the feral roar echoed like thunder up to the far reaches of the room. Jad Karadin stood in a half crouch, holding his thirty inch meteorite steel blade in one hand and his silver sword in the other. The witch hunter turned from his sport and bellowed out a laugh for the Cat witcher. He yanked Micah to her feet, her back plastered against him.

"I fucking did for your wife, filth." Snarled the witch hunter, "I'll do for your whore too. I wonder if she'll like being pierced as much as Letitia did." He gave Micah's braid a brutal tug, yanking her head back and exposing her throat. Slowly he pulled his sword, maintaining eye contact with Karadin all the while, and delicately placed the flat of the blade between Micah's breasts so one edge lay against the beating pulse in her throat. His lips trailed profane kisses down her bloodied face from her temple to her neck, just where his sword pressed into the tender flesh. "Don't worry that I'll be too quick with her, though. Your Letty didn't have any stamina. I wanted to go all night long with her, a pity she died so quickly. This little witch, though, should last a good long while. She has spirit." March's sneer was hideous.

The witcher stalked forward, skirting around to the right, deadening himself to March's taunts. He could hear the patter of Greta's heart and had already pinpointed her within the tower beyond the door. He focused on the deranged man before him, wanting to kill him, but cautious. In his mind Micah kept turning in to Letty. "Let her go, March. This is between you and me."

"Don't come any closer!" The sword pressed harder into Micah's skin and drew a ruby line that beaded with pearls of blood. Her right hand was pulling at the man's grip on his sword while her left tried to batter his hand away from her head. He lowered his mouth to suckle her ear, blowing his hot, sour breath across her face. He murmured quietly to her alone, though it was discernable to the sharp eared witcher as well, "I might keep you alive for a while. Get some bed sport out of you." then chuckled wickedly at her whimper and nipped her viciously with his teeth. He relished how hard her fear made him.

Micah's vision was swimming and she fought the dark edges of consciousness that were trying to drag her under. The hand March had wrapped around her braid was unrelenting and he had her up on her toes with his blade digging into her neck. Pain was exploding like fireworks in her head and she knew she had only moments to do something to save herself. Making the sign with her left hand, Micah reached for the witch hunter's face and cast igni with all her strength, keeping up a steady stream of fire as long as she could. March howled and pushed her away from him, clasping his face in his left hand and staggering with his sword semi raised in his right. Micah tumbled to the floor, the darkness closing in on her as a clash of steel echoed dully in her mind. It was the last thing she knew before the darkness claimed her.

The Cat hissed at the witch hunter as the man brought his blade up to parry Karadin's strike. March's face was a blistered and charred ruin where Micah's igni had blasted him, blinding his right eye. He snarled back at the witcher and spun away to gain time to recompose himself but Jad gave him no quarter, driving him back and back as he flashed a series of punishing strikes on the injured man. March counterattacked, spinning behind the Cat and slicing across his shoulder with a downward diagonal strike. Jad roared as his enemy scored a nasty hit, tearing at his gambeson and tracing a line into the flesh beneath. He dodged March's second, vertical strike, jumping with a flip, turning in midair, over the flashing blade that would have severed his lower spine. He landed lightly on his feet facing the witch hunter, breathing hard, letting his hatred for the man roll out of him in waves. Thrust, parry, strike, strike, parry, pirouette, strike! Back and forth they battled, until Karadin stumbled over the inert form of the doctor. He had forgotten she was there, so intent was he on the witch hunter. It was a fatal mistake. March surged forward and plunged his blade deep into Karadin's belly, skewering him through his spine, the point flashing out of the witcher's back.

Jad didn't even feel the pain as he thumped to his knees, kept upright only by the sword stuck through his gut and held by his enemy. He dropped his silver sword and clutched March by the front of his armor, yanking hard and pulling their bodies as close together as lovers. The other man laughed maniacally in the witchers face, flinging spittle down his cheeks.

Dimly, Jad was aware of his little girl screaming, of the witch hunter cackling. He heard the swift grind of boot heels striking sparks on the flagstones, the lighter tread of a child's running footsteps. His grasp hardened on March's coat as the man struggled to disentangled himself from the witcher. Karadin brought his sword up, pressing the point into the soft underside of the witch hunter's jaw, then grinned with a guttural snarl as he skewered March's head on the blade with one strong thrust. They stayed locked in that tableau, time suspended, before slowly toppling over together to sprawl on the floor.

Two small shapes torpedoed into him. Tolly, the brave son of his heart and Greta, so beautiful, just like her mother. He touched her hair as his sight began to grow dim.

"Papa! Papa!" his children chorused in despair, Tolly gripping one of his hands to his chest and weeping openly in denial of the looming truth. Greta's sobs tore at him and he cupped her face, looking up as a shadow passed over him. It was Lambert, beaten bloody with a multitude of wounds of his own, kneeling before him.

"Lambert." Jad swallowed, finding it difficult to talk. "Promise me … promise..."

"What man, what do you want?" Lambert knew what would follow. He was no stranger to death.

"Take care …. of them. Take care … They are that which I didn't know I had to give … in exchange ... for my life. Take care ... "

"Yeah, I promise. I'll take care of them, Karadin." Husked the Wolf, making his solemn vow before the dying man.

"I .. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about Aiden." Jad gasped, then sighed, his eyes taking on the glassiness of death, his hand dropping from Greta's cheek. The little girl crumpled over her father as her brother let loose a despairing howl and threw himself at the lifeless form before him, pounding at his body with his small fists.

"NOOOO don't go! Don't go!" his little boy voice was ragged and torn, his sobs robbing him of breath. Lambert grabbed the child and held him through his helpless rage.

That is how the other witchers found them, the battle finally over, a cold sun peeking into the windows of the tower with it's weak first light.


	36. Brothers in Battle

**Yes, I know this is a short chapter. The last one was almost 4000 words long. I want to thank everyone who has been reading my story. Thank you for sticking with me this long :) I would appreciate reviews, if you have time.  
**  
 **Also, thank you Pineappleapproves for the picture of Arek and Micah that is now the thumbnail for this fic. You captured them beautifully!**

 **And thank you OmniGamer101 for betareading for me. Right now, we're in the early chapters and pulling things together, so if my readers want to reread it, that would be grand :)**

* * *

Arek rushed to Micah's side, a pit of fear forming in his gut as he fell to his knees before her. He took off his gauntlet and felt for a pulse, letting out the breath he was holding when he felt the rapid, shallow flutter at her throat. She was alive, at least, though that bastard had made a right mess of her face. She weighed next to nothing as he gathered her up. Keira made her way to him, her brows drawn in concern.

The sorceress gently touched Arek to draw his attention. "Bring her next to the fire in the dining hall."

Arek stepped around Vesemir and Lambert coping with the children. The old man had cast Axii on the little boy, who lay pale and silent against Lambert's shoulder his face pressed into the witcher's neck as he stood with Tolly held in his good arm. Vesemir held Greta in his comforting embrace, feeling the weight of sorrow bearing down on them. So much death and destruction had been visited on the ancient keep all because of blind hatred and evil intent. The old man sighed and started moving toward the bedrooms with Lambert following behind.

The young witcher felt the weight of his oath to Karadin very keenly. What was he going to do with two kids? They couldn't go on the path with him, they were far too young. But they were his responsibility now, and he'd be damned if anything would happen to them on his watch. Lambert looked at the back of his mentor as they ascended the steps in the tower, resolving to discuss the matter once they all had time to recuperate. If anyone would have an answer, it would be Vesemir.

* * *

"You have to hold her still, Arek! I can't do anything if she's thrashing around." Said the blond sorceress. Sweat beaded on Kiera Metz's brow as she concentrated her spell into Micah's face. The little geneticist was lucky to be alive after pushing herself too hard with an exploding quen shield followed by a sustained igni blast. But the drain on her reserves wasn't what was killing her now. She had taken a terrible beating from the witch hunter. Keira suspected Micah's lower jaw was broken along with the terrible gash that split her face deeply to the bone, from her right nostril to the bottom of her chin where Belleville March had savaged her with his dimiterium bound gauntlet. The bleeding had sent her into shock and if Keira didn't get her stabilized quickly she would die.

"Nuummmmmph! NUUuummmph!" moaned the little geneticist, struggling hard against the large hands that held her head still.  
"Someone hold her down! I can't stop this spell or the shock will kill her!" The sorceress snarled.

Arek's forehead was pressed into Micah's and Keira could swear he was weeping as he begged his lover to hold on. Kozin grabbed her right arm and a Redanian infantryman held her left. Letho grasped both of Micah's legs in his ham like fists and kept her from kicking Keira in the ribs.

"Dammit Keira! Should it hurt her this much?" Arek's voice broke in his anguish as he glared at the blond woman.

"There's a lot of damage and dimiterium residue in the wound. It's a huge compilation." Keira shook her head, "Accelerated healing is painful anyway, the tissues are being forced to knit together. I need her awake so I can gauge her responses and can't put her in a sleep spell or dose her with poppy juice till she's stabilized." The sorceress huffed out a breath. "I'm not even sure I can make the skin knit together with the dimeterium present. I might just have to make due with sutures."

"I don't care, do whatever you need to save her life." The witcher's face was fierce, but his voice held grief and fear.

* * *

Eskel removed Jad's body and laid him out in Micah's lab until they could light a funeral pyre. Karadin had died with honor, like a witcher, and had proved himself in the end. The sin Lambert had held against him was finally absolved. Eskel's mind turned to hiding the paths that led to Kaer Morhen. They had gotten careless recently, with all the events of the past two months. It was time to be vigilant and mindful as they licked their wounds. Never having the advantage of numbers, their safety lie in guile now more than ever. The witcher's agile mind began formulating plans to hide the keep from further incursions as he returned to the great hall. A vial of swallow and a flask of cherry vodka were calling his name.

* * *

Three hours later, Keira sat, drained and shaking, at the table in the great hall. She had stabilized Micah's wounds but hadn't been able to seal the gash in her face with magic, so she had resorted to silk stitches after finally putting a sleeping spell on the little doctor. Arek's mate would have a terrible scar, but at least she lived. Afterward she had tended the witchers and the young Redanian soldier who was allowed to live. Keira couldn't wait to hear that story … some other time. Right now, she couldn't even lift her head.

Keira felt rather than heard Lambert swing a leg over the bench and sit, bracketing her between his knees, and didn't resist when he pulled her tenderly into his chest with his good arm. His clavicle had been broken again in the skirmish, and he bore several new wounds that had made her fret, but it couldn't be helped. She turned into his comfort, careful of his injuries. She knew there had been something between him and Jad, and she was aware the Cat witcher had died, but she was too exhausted to question the youngest witcher now. Lambert just sat with his face pressed into Keira's hair, breathing in her scent. She found that oddly comforting and determined to enjoy it as long as she could remain awake.

"He made me promise to take care of the kids." Murmured Lambert, finally giving voice to his anxiety. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with two little kids?"

Keira chuckled as the vision of Papa Lambert rose in her mind, a more unlikely sight she knew she would never behold. "Maybe Vesemir would stay here with them during the hunting season." Suggested the sorceress in a tired voice.

The witcher grunted in reply. "Come on, let's get some rest. Don't want them waking up with no one there. "

* * *

"Alright, lad, in detail. I want to hear your story now the fighting's done." Kozin puffed on his pipe and sat before a fire in the evening hall, where he had dragged the infantryman after seeing to the boy's injuries and downing swallow to take care of his own. The big Bear knew he needed to clean up and get some rest, but he wanted to hear what the infantry soldier had to say first.

The young man took a deep breath and introduced himself, "My name is Drummond. All my life I've expected a witcher to come for me, but he never did, now I'm here." He shrugged eloquently and told the whole story as he had heard it from his father so many times in his youth, told of his family's history, and pulled off his charm letting it lie in his hand. The witcher interrupted the tale from time to time to ask pointed questions, nodding to himself as the boy answered. Finally, Kozin pulled his medallion off his head and revealed the the mates to Drummond's , fitting all three together to reveal the whole. Finally, the mystery of the word was solved. The inscription read 'bhràithrean anns a 'bhlàr'.

"It means 'brothers in battle'. I forged this about a hundred years ago for my friends and I." Kozin stroked the metal almost reverently. He whispered, almost as an afterthought, "Never thought I'd see this third piece again, though." The big Bear sat in thought, staring into the flames of the fireplace as he stroked his beard. He handed Drummond his charm back and put his own medallion around his neck once more. He got up, beckoned to the young man and showed him to an empty bedroom, then went to his own to mull his plans over in private.


	37. To Hell With Neutrality

The witchers spent the next day dragging dead witch hunters to a mass grave where they were set alight with multiple blasts of igni after they had been stripped of armor, weapons and correspondence. Eskel, Vesemir and the others made their way to the library once the grisly work was done to look over several letters that were found on the witch hunter Drummond had identified as Belleville March.

"The good thing," said Eskel, "is this attack culled their forces quite a bit. The bad thing is that Hemmelfart wants us dead and our secrets under the control of the church. This was only the start of it."

"That's not all. Look at this." Lambert handed over one of letters that had still been sealed."

Eskel whistled. "Radovid's taking a page out of Emperor Emhyr's book. If I understand this right, he's after the whole north. We're supposed to be neutral…"

"To hell with neutrality." snarled Vesemir, looking down from the Library balcony at the devastation to the lower curtain wall and gripping the balustrade hard enough to make his knuckles turn white. "We can't afford neutrality any longer, not if we are going to survive. We have the secrets of the trials to keep out of their hands, and it will be easier to do if the northern kingdoms are stabilized." The old man shook his head in disgust as Eskel and Lambert looked at him in surprise. "A theocracy run by the Church of the Eternal Flame would be catastrophic for us. If we have the means to stop it, then we should."

"Micah proposed finding the other schools and stripping whatever we could concerning the trials from them." Said Arek. "I think we need to go forward with that."

"I'll give you directions to the school of the Viper, but soon as the passes clear in the spring, I'm headed over the mountains and out of the Continental realms." said Letho. "The Empire still wants my head and I don't mean to let them have it."

"Understandable." Said Arek. "Shortly after he and the kids got here, Karadin told me that the school of the Cat had been utterly razed by Nilfgaard two years ago. There was nothing left to salvage and even if there were, imperial troops made a garrison over the ruins."

Kozin grunted and took a pull on his pipe. "I removed all the mutagens and documentation from the Bear school decades ago and hid it away in a safe place. I'm headed back to Skellige soon as I've rested up a bit, but I'll make sure all of it gets to you here."

Vesemir looked at the Viper and the Bear. "You know both you boys are welcome to winter here for as long as you want."

"Appreciate that, old man." growled Kozin, "But I need to go. Maybe I'll take you up on it next year."

"I'll head east with you in the spring, Letho." Said Arek, "Manticore school is hard enough to find if you know where it is and I buried most of it last time I was through. But everything is still there." The Viper nodded at the Manticore in agreement.

Arek left, then, to check on Micah. She hadn't yet woken when he had looked in on her before coming to the library. Letho and Kozin also ambled out on their own errands. Vesemir turned to Eskel.

"I am going to ask you to get a start on this as soon as possible, son. I want you to gather more information about what Radovid and the church are intending." Vesemir cast a glance toward the rising smoke of the mass grave. "Start in Novigrad and follow where your Path leads. If Geralt is finished with the Wild Hunt, he needs to know about this, too."

"I'll leave directly after Karadin's funeral pyre." said Eskel, brows drawing together in thought. "You and Lambert can hide our traces. We've become too easy to find. Too bad we can't make the whole valley disappear except to our allies."

Vesemir chortled, "I suspect that would take more magic than both of Geralt's sorceresses and Keira could draw up in a month."

"Don't worry about it, Es." said Lambert. "We'll get by with normal methods. By Yuletide, we'll be invisible."

Eskel left the library to prepare his kit and figure out how to get his horse out of the keep. The remainder of the stables had collapsed completely late that morning and the only way out to the road was over a pile of rubble.

Lambert turned to Vesemir, "I need your advice." He said, looking at the toe of his left boot.

"I think this is the first time you've ever asked me for that." Murmured the old man. "It's about those kids, isn't it?"

Lambert nodded, then looked into the mountains beyond the balcony. "What the hell do I do with them? I can't take them with me on the Path. Soon as I'm healed enough, Keira and I are leaving to further her research. I figure I can find the Griffon school while we're at it. But dragging two little ones along isn't going to work."

"Before the massacre," Vesemir mused, "older witchers would stay behind during hunting season, to train the young ones and mind the keep. I'm getting too old to spend my summers in rotting bogs, killing monsters. I believe Micah is staying here too, though she may decide to accompany Arek. Greta and Tolly can stay with me." Vesemir grinned and slapped Lambert on his good shoulder. "But in the meantime, I suggest you start training them to be witchers. They're your destiny, after all."

* * *

Micah felt like she was climbing out of a deep pit. She was aware of throbbing pain. Cracking open her left eye just a sliver, Micah moaned, the throbbing pit of agony that was her face blocking out every other sensation in her body.

"Shhh. I'm right here, love." growled her mate in a rough whisper, brushing hair out of her face with a gentle touch. He took her hand and brought it to his lips.

"Armmmph. Mmmmmmm" moaned the little doctor when she tried to talk. She moved her head carefully back and forth on the pillow.

"You have a broken jaw and a deep cut across your mouth. I'll get Keira, she might have something for the pain." He kissed her brow and squeezed her hand before leaving their room.

Micah gingerly pushed herself into a sitting position and held her spinning head. She vaguely remembered the witch hunter hitting her over and over, but nearly everything before and certainly everything after that was a blur. The door was pushed open by a small child and Tolly crept into the room. Micah could barely see out of her left eye, and her right eye was swollen shut, but she could hear the child's labored breathing.

The boy just stood, looking at the battered woman. Tears coursed down his cheeks, his lips trembled, and he knew he was the one to blame. It was all his fault the witch hunter had caught the doctor and she hadn't been anything but nice to Greta and him since they got here. He figured it was his fault, too, that his papa had died.

"I.. I'm .. sorry!" He gasped out.

Micah turned her head, trying to make out the blur where he stood. She held a hand out to him and he recoiled in horror. Her face was bruised and swollen, and there wasn't an inch of skin that wasn't discolored. The little boy gave an anguished cry and ran from her. Micah could only groan. She swung her feet to the floor and waited till the world stopped tipping so alarmingly before she tried to stand, then promptly fell back to the bed. She wouldn't be back on her feet for a while. Not that she could see to walk anywhere. Where were Arek and Keira? She chuffed in frustration and leaned against the wall, curling her knees up and hugging her arms around them. That's how Keira found her a few minutes later.

Arek came in behind the sorceress and gathered his lover in his lap as Keira explained the need for Micah to hold still so her healing magic would be most effective. After the treatment, the little geneticist would be able to swallow some pain medicine and rest more easily. The big witcher held her tightly while Keira began her spell. Crying in pain, trying to keep herself as still as she could, Micah weathered ten minutes of intense magical therapy before she lost consciousness. The bruises and swelling had begun to recede a little by the time Keira ended the spell.

"I think three more sessions should enable her to talk and eat normally." The sorceress pulled something out of a pouch at her hip. "Mix three pinches of this with about a cup of wine and give it to her when she comes too. It's a narcotic pain killer, so she'll sleep, but that's really what her body needs right now. We'll do a second session later tonight."

"Thanks, Keira." He stroked Micah's sweat soaked hair away from her face and cuddled her close. The sorceress left their room, quietly closing the door behind her.

* * *

Tolly ran down the stairs. All the adults were elsewhere in the keep and no one noticed him scramble out of the door, down the path and over the rubble pile that spilled out onto the roadway. He ran until his little boy legs couldn't carry him any further, falling to his knees where the stream crossed the road. He decided he couldn't ever go back, the shame was too much to bear. Doctor Micah's face was horrible and it was all his fault. His papa was dead and that was his fault, too. The child picked himself up out of the dust and mud and crossed the stream, the sun glittering at its zenith in the sparkling brook, and wandered along a disused track. He scuffled his feet through the dirt and sniffled intermittently until he came to what appeared to be a deserted mineshaft.

Forgetting his anguish for a brief moment in sight of an adventure, the little boy crept toward the hole in the earth and stood at the precipice between daylight and Stygian darkness. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. He knew monsters lived in the dark. Maybe he should go back to the keep.

Just as he was about to turn around, he felt, more than heard the "WHUMP" of the forktail land on the path behind him, blocking his escape from the mine. Tolly turned slowly, his tummy whirling like leaves on the autumn wind, then stood frozen in place as his eyes traced the movements of the large, reptile before him. The huge head swung back and forth over the path, flicking its forked tongue out as if to taste him on the air. The creature was more terrifying than any of his papa's tales, but Tolly knew what it was when it lashed its tail around its haunches. The monster's head nosed toward him, almost pushing him over when it connected with his torso. It reared back and screeched, then lunged for Tolly with uncanny speed. The child screamed and turned, running into the mine shaft with three bounding steps on packed dirt. His fourth step was over open air that sent him tumbling into the dark unknown.

* * *

"Hey, have you seen Tolly?" Lambert asked Letho when he walked into the kitchen as the last rays of the sun made golden streaks across the mountain tops. The air held a nip and the promise of frost before morning.

The big Viper shook his head, his brows drawing together in thought. "Haven't seen him since last night, actually. Have you asked Keira?" He drawled.

"She said the last time she saw him was just before checking in on Micah. Damn kid is probably hiding." Lambert stalked off to check all the hiding places he used when he was growing up in the keep. Two hours later, he began to feel the gnawing bite of fear creep up his belly. He had looked from the bottom of the castle to the top and there was no sign of the boy. Lambert went back to the front door of the keep and started looking closely for any clues that the little boy had passed this way, ignoring the ache in his chest and shoulder from his injuries. There! Just a scuff mark, but it was from the boy's boot. No one else in the keep except Greta had feet that small. On the trail now, the witcher trailed his charge over the rubble, down to the stream and up the unused track, where he lost it in the torn up ground outside a cave entrance.  
"FUCK!" Bellowed the man, feeling frantic. He took deep breaths and meticulously examined the ground. Deep gouges from large claws had ripped up the trail. Whatever it was had been trying to get at something inside the cave. The sun had long since set, but a quarter moon was just peaking over the edge of the mountains, giving the witcher plenty of light to see scoring claw marks on the walls just inside the cave. It had been too big to get its whole body inside, but the head had snaked in all the way to the hole in the floor.

Lambert knelt down and slowed his breathing and heart rate, focusing his sensitive hearing as he perched at the edge of the hole. The soft moans of someone in pain drifted up to him.

"Tolly!" He hollered, listening as the echos of his voice bounced away in what must be a sizable chamber. The witcher cast about for something to use as a torch, finding a broken tree branch that he cast igni on. Thrusting it into the hole, he saw the cavern fell away for roughly twelve feet, and laying at the bottom in a crumpled heap was Tolly, a little worse for wear. The child wasn't moving, but he was breathing. Lambert knew he couldn't climb down with his arm held to his side in a sling.

"Hold on, kid. I'm going to get help." Lambert shouted down, then ran for Kaer Morhen in ground eating strides.

Two hours later, Keira knelt by Tolly's side, assessing him for injuries. The little boy had woken when Eskel had lowered himself into the cavern and lit torches in the space. His sobs wrenched at something near Lambert's heart as the man paced outside the cave entrance, trying to contain his impatience. Kozin and Letho applied draconid oil to their silver blades, eying the sky warily.

"He has a broken leg." Keira called up from the hole. "We'll have to put a splint on it and then I will portal us back to the keep" Lambert pushed his hand through his disheveled hair, crouching at the lip of the hole.

"Is he going to be alright?" He looked down at his lover crouching beside his ward.

"He should be." She looked up into his concerned face, "Come down here and you can come back to Kaer Morhen with us."

"I'll pass on the portal. Can't really navigate the rope to get down one handed anyway. I'll meet you back there."

Eskel stepped beside Keira and spoke to Lambert before the younger man left. "Send Vesemir and Arek when you get back. They'll want to see what's down here. Too bad Micah's in no shape to come."

"What did you find?" asked Lambert.  
"The original trials." Eskel's face was serious and Lambert swore.


	38. Dust and Discovery

_Battlecry, is the damage done?_

 _Who has lost and who has won?_

 _Who will be there when my life's support is gone?_

" _Bring Me Back To Life"_

 _By_

 _Ht Bristol, Charlie Bannister, Vincent Steele & Nine One One_

* * *

Eskel had lit torches around the substantial cavern, illuminating things all the witchers thought best left forgotten in the dark. Arek could smell traces of mutagens clinging to old glassware and the faint aroma stirred a somatic memory so strong he thought he might puke. A large distillery dominated one corner of the cavern, surrounded by crates that had held herbs and other raw materials that had been instrumental in creating the vile brews used to create witchers. Opposite the still was a mortuary where the failures had been dissected then prepared for cremation. Piles of detritus that might have been infirmary beds lined one wall and the remains of mutation racks marched along the other. The racks had been used at some distant point in the past to strap down young boys, pump them full of substances that melted away their humanity and prepared them for special mutagens that would shape their destinies. At least for the ones who survived the brutal process where seventy percent of the initiates died. Arek had never known any girls who had been subjected to the trials, certainly not one who survived, but there were rumors the Cat school had gone there within the last hundred and fifty years.

He trailed a hand over a rickety bookshelf at the far end of the chamber, away from remembered horrors, and carefully pulled out a disintegrating tome. There wasn't much left that could be considered readable on pages time and moisture had ravaged, but perhaps Keira would be able to raise some residual ink from the paper. The Manticore knew Micah wanted to move forward with her research, though thankfully she wasn't intent on resurrecting the trials themselves. Preferring to find the better way, she sought her elegant solution, but she still needed to know the details of what had been done in the past. The "videos", her word for the crystal recordings, didn't categorize the process in complete, scientific detail. The little geneticist had claimed that without the information to actually recreate what the originators had done, understanding would take far longer to achieve. He wasn't sure anymore where he stood on her idea of making new witchers.

Dust ground under a footstep behind him and Arek turned to find Vesemir approaching from the other end of the room.

"We'll take it all back for her, Arek." Said the old witcher, looking around at the remnants of witcher creation. His voice was quietly solemn, as if they were disturbing a tomb. In a way, perhaps they were considering the souls lost to the trials of the past. Arek nodded as he scrubbed his beard with his right hand.

"She'll have my hide for not bringing her so she could see it all in place, but she's not in any shape to be up yet." His voice was weary and he couldn't help the note of worry that crept in as he spoke.

Vesemir put a hand on the big man's shoulder, offering quiet comfort. "She'll be ok, son. Micah is a tough woman for all there's not much of her taking up space. Focus on getting through the winter first. This place isn't going anywhere in the next week so she'll get a chance to delve around on her own. Do you think she'll go east with you in the spring?" The old witcher asked, then he chuckled, "That girl will probably want to dig out Kaer Mardyakhor with her own two hands, you know."

Arek barked a laugh. "You're right, she would, though I would rather she stay here and remain safe."

Small pebbles rained down in the alcove where the ceiling had collapsed, leading to the passage above. Arek thought Tolly was lucky to not have broken his neck in the twelve foot drop onto jumbled scree. It was easy enough for a witcher to scramble up or down, however, and Kozin landed adroitly on his feet as he down-climbed the stone chimney formation. The big Bear was surprisingly light on his feet for all his mass.

"Quite a nasty drop for the lad." Grumbled the giant witcher, looking around the room for the first time. His nose twitched and his face was creased in a fierce scowl. "This place digs up memories I would rather leave buried."

They all nodded as Letho and Eskel joined the three near the bookshelves.

"This where your trial was held, Vesemir?" asked Eskel, only half joking as he ran a finger along the spine of one of the books.

"You know, I don't know." Said Vesemir thoughtfully, "They drugged us so we would be unconscious when they took us for the selections. Didn't want us finding the place afterward. Could be this was the place though as the ruins of the bastion, where we lived, are just up the mountainside."

Those few words from his mentor were more than Eskel had ever heard Vesemir say about his own trial. The scarred man tucked them away in his mind, silently treasuring them.

"Let's get these books back to the keep." Grunted the scarred witcher, picking up one of the crates they had brought with and transferring the ancient tomes with care, wrapping each in oilskin before placing it in the box. The rest of the men grabbed crates and started filling them with books to take back to Kaer Morhen.

* * *

Lambert paced back and forth in the infirmary after Keira had left with Greta in tow. He had been maybe as old as Tolly when he was brought to this valley so many years ago, and he remembered himself as a small boy who had tried to run away that first winter, being caught out by a hungry pack of wolves in deep snow. Had it not been for Vesemir tracking him down and putting his own life on the line to kill that pack of hunters for his sorry hide, he would never have even made it to the trials. The man who had claimed him as a surprise child hadn't even bothered to put his boots on when Lambert was discovered missing. So much for destiny. At least his mentor had cared.

Tolly's face was shaken and pale and he looked entirely forlorn with his leg in a splint. Lambert had tied the boy down and straightened the leg while Keira had done her magic to speed natural healing. The lad was too young to be given her narcotic pain killer, though, and the child would have to tough it out with milder analgesics.

Lambert had been surprised at the sorceress. She had seemed almost as concerned as he was when he found the boy. He laughed out loud at the thought he and Keira might have so much in common with Geralt and Yennifer. He stopped pacing then and approached the bed, sitting heavily on the stool most recently vacated by his lover. He let his head drop into his good hand, scrubbing at his tired face.

"Why." Taking Keira's warning to heart, to not rail at the child, it was the only word he had spoken in the last hour. Lambert dug deep. What was it Vesemir had said when he was lying in a bed just like this, a bandaged bite on his leg making him want to cry? It had been his first scar and he rubbed the spot on the back of right thigh now.

"It's all my fault and everybody hates me!" Whispered Tolly on a sniffle.

"What the hell? No one hates you." Lambert's brows were drawn together.

"If I would have stayed with Doctor Micah in the downstairs, she wouldn't be hurt and my papa wouldn't be dead. It's all my fault." Tears were tracking down his cheeks now.

"C'mon kid. Witchers don't cry and you're a witcher now, so knock it off." Lambert gave the boy a sharp look. "Yeah, it was fucking brilliant to go running off, but it's not your fault Micah got hurt, or that Ka … your da was killed." the witcher modulated his tone to a rasping growl, "None of this would have happened if it weren't for the godsdamned Church of the Eternal Fire and the witch hunters. Give credit where its due." He looked at the boy who was trying to manfully contain his tears. "Don't do anything ass stupid like running away again. It never helps. Your da told me to take care of you and you almost got yourself eaten by some damn draconid."

"Forktail." said the boy.

"What?" Lambert controlled his sneer with an effort.

"It was a forktail. Papa tells us … used to tell us stories of being a witcher and he drew a picture of one for me once." A small hand wiped at the remains of tears.  
"Fuck and all." swore the man, just looking at Tolly. "When you put your foot in it, you really put your foot in it." Lambert chuckled, then started to laugh. "You got away, lived to tell the tale. That's worth something. Look, kid. No one here hates you. You get some sleep, take a drink of this potion Keira left and we'll talk to Micah in the morning. She should be up to visitors by then." The witcher held the cup for Tolly as the boy sat up to drink, then ruffled the child's hair affectionately. "Don't think that having a broken leg is going to get you out of training, Bartholomew. You will be reading all about forktails starting right after breakfast in the morning. I expect you to have the entire entry in "Bestiary" memorized word for word before Yule." Tolly lay down, his tousled head turned toward Lambert as the man tucked the blanket up to his chin.

"Thank you for coming to get me, Lambert." The boy yawned and his eyelids drooped.

"Yeah. Just don't go making a habit of teasing the local wildlife, kid, until you're big enough to fight back." The witcher waited till the boy's breathing slowed into the rhythm of sleep before he left to find his sorceress.

* * *

It was well after midnight when the rest of the witchers trooped back to Kaer Morhen, toting crates of books with them. Lambert was dozing in front of the fire in the great hall, letting the vodka in his cup sooth him after a healing session with Keira. The benefit of the magic was he would be fully healed before Yule. The downside was that it hurt like a stinking bitch. He stood and ambled over to one of the boxes, picking out one of the books packed inside.

"Huh. Not much here, is there." He could smell the weight of centuries in these pages, and hints of things he steadfastly refused to remember.

Vesemir stepped beside him. "How's Tolly? Any idea why he ran off?"

"He'll live. He thinks it's his fault Micah was hurt. Blames himself for Karadin's death, too." The younger witcher scratched the back of his head. "Damn stupid thing to do, running off like that. But I can understand where he's coming from."

"I seem to remember you and a pack of wolves in the dead of winter your first year here, Lambert." The old man chortled. The younger witcher just rolled his eyes, but didn't seem to have the venom he usually did when Vesemir brought up his childhood at the keep.

There were ten crates of books in all that the witchers had shifted from the ancient laboratory, in various states of readability. Lambert imagined Micah and Keira would enjoy spending hours pouring over them. Things had certainly changed in the last ten years, he thought, remembering how they discouraged Tris whenever she asked to be shown witcher secrets. Now, it seemed, they were just pouring them all over the place for people to see. He sighed with the thought and looked up to find Arek looking at one of the books.

"Anything useful?" Asked Lambert.

"Some, but not much that's readable right now." Arek shrugged. "I just hope Micah won't insist on seeing the place for herself as soon as I tell her about it."

Lambert snickered. "You'll figure out how to break it to her. Speaking of Micah, Keira wanted to do another treatment tonight. Come on, I'll walk you upstairs."

They left the crates for the morning and went up the south tower to the bedrooms. Lambert left Arek to go in quiety to his geneticist while the younger witcher went in search of his sorceress.

Arek found Micah sitting up, looking mussed from sleep. Her bruises had taken on the livid brown and green of contusions well on their way to healing, though the cut on her mouth was still raw. Keira had said the dimiterium residue would eventually leach out of the tissues and be eliminated by Micah's body, but not before the laceration healed on its own. In the meantime, her magic couldn't touch it.

The woman smiled faintly at him then swung her feet over the side of the bed and tried to stand. He was immediately at her side, bracing her with a strong arm at her waist. Micah indicated she needed to visit the garderobe, taking slow, somewhat unsteady steps in that direction with his help. Keira was ready to initiate a healing session when they got back. Once again, Arek held her as pain twisted itself around head, thumping in time to her heartbeat, but it didn't seem nearly as bad as it had earlier in the day. She didn't scream this time and managed to hold her tears at bay, but she would have dug divots in Arek's arms if he hadn't taken her hands and twined his fingers in hers before the pain got too bad.

"That should do it for tonight. You'll be up to attending Jad's funeral at sunset." Said the sorceress.

Micah's eyes held shocked dismay and she hummed in her distress, looking between Arek and Keira. The big man nodded sadly and told her what had happened, filling in the blanks in her memory. Keira slipped out quietly as the little doctor began to weep, seeking comfort in Arek's embrace.

Micah pushed herself away from Arek just a little, looking up at him in alarm as she remembered her visitor earlier in the afternoon. "Tolly!" She hissed between her teeth. She tried to communicate with her eyes, but feared she wouldn't get her meaning across.

"We wondered what spurred the lad to run away." Micah sucked in a breath at his words, but he comforted her. "He's fine. Don't fuss yourself, love. He's back safe and sound." Arek pulled her back into the shelter of his body and passed her the cup Keira had left on the bedside table.

The candle was doused and they lay down together curled together under the blanket against the cold mountain night. Micah rolled to her side, facing her lover, trailing her hand in sleepy circles across his ribs. "I love you." she said through her wounds, hugging him close to her as she nestled into their warm cocoon. Sleep was steeling up on her and she was following its siren call as she heard Arek say into her hair. "Love you too."


	39. Va'Fail, Toddrynn

_Now the sun's gone to hell and_

 _The moon's riding high_

 _Let me bid you farewell_

 _Every man has to die_

 _But it's written in the starlight_

 _And every line in your palm_

 _We are fools to make war_

 _On our brothers in arms_

 _ **Dire Straits, "Brothers In Arms"**_

* * *

Heavy flakes of snow were beginning to drift down the mountain, filling in cracks and crevices around the keep and softening its harsh lines. The sun had set, sending shafts of golden light over the horizon as it sank away beneath the curve of the earth. Wolves howled in the gloaming of the snowy twilight as if they, too, wished to honor the fallen, their cries forlorn in the hushed silence of the snowy fortress. The air was close and intimate as the moisture laden clouds lay in wisped blankets caressing the mountains, creating a time out of time for the denizens of Kaer Morhen. The witchers trooped out of the castle toward the funeral stone, between them bearing the litter that held Jad Karadin's mortal remains.

On one side of the bier, hobbled Tolly, using a crutch that Vesemir had found for him earlier in the day. Greta walked in stoic silence on the other side, holding the old witcher's hand. Micah, Keira and Drummond followed behind, feeling the weight of this moment.

The men placed Karadin on the cremation slab then stepped backed to form a rough semicircle around the stones. Vesemir looked to either side of him at the solemn faces of his friends and brothers, then began speaking.

"One who is a witcher must, before all things, keep constantly in mind the fact that he will die. So doing enables him to live in accordance with the Path, for existence is impermanent and particularly uncertain is the life of a witcher. We will remember your name, Jad Karadin. As long as there are witchers at Kaer Morhen, you will not be forgotten. May the earth lay lightly upon you."

The old witcher nodded once, then stepped forward, removing the dead man's swords and medallion from his body. Giving a nod to the other witchers, Vesemir knelt before the children.

"Greta, these were your father's swords, the tools of his trade. They're yours now." The scion of the Wolf school placed the blades lovingly in front of the little maid. "You will have to grow into them, child, but we'll teach you everything we know and help you to do that." Then, turning to Tolly, the old man placed his hand on the boy's tousled head. "Your father was a witcher and walked his path as he saw fit. Most of us don't have anyone to leave our worldly goods to, but I know he wanted you to have this." The hissing Cat medallion was placed over Tolly's head as Vesemir continued. "You'll learn, alongside Greta, here, and we'll bring you up to be a witcher. It's up to you if you follow your father's Path or not."

When he had finished speaking with the children, the old Wolf turned back toward the slab, piled with brush and logs, ready for the fire. The six witchers stepped forward and, in symphony, made the igni sign and set the pyre alight.

Tolly held the Cat medallion in his small fist, endeavoring to keep his face as impassive as any of these big men. He looked at his sister, standing beside him, weeping like the weak girl she was. The boy made a vow then, as he watched the man he had loved with his whole heart turn to ash, he determined in that moment to learn this trade, to master it and live up to his father's memory. Lambert's hand came down on his shoulder then, as if in agreement with his inner vow, and the boy stood as tall as his five summers would let him.

The gathered company watched till the flames settled into a steady crackle then filed back into the keep, subdued with their own thoughts as they went. The pyre wouldn't be done with its sad work till morning and it didn't need a vigil to keep it burning. Food had been prepared earlier and was set out, along with ample wine and spirits for the adults. The children were allowed a cup each of watered mead. Conversation was stilted for a short time until Keira spoke up.

"So, Drummond is it?" The sorceress's brow raised at the boy, causing him to gulp his drink a little harder than he intended. Kozin gently pounded him on the back as he choked, driving him forward with each well placed tap. "How did a Redanian foot soldier end up turning coat and fighting for the witchers?"

The young man stood self consciously and looked to the big Bear, who nodded in encouragement. Drummond told his story, including the part about being a child surprise and his family's oral history of never failing the trials. He finished his story and found himself being sharply considered by the small woman whose face March had savaged. She turned in her seat and spoke to the witcher who hovered over her protectively. The big man came toward him, nodding at Kozin as he refilled their cups with potato vodka.

"Micah wants the boy, huh." The big bear grumbled, looking at Drummond thoughtfully. "I wondered how long it would take her te pester him for samples."

"Are you surprised?" Arek introduced himself to the young man. "Micah is … special." He exchanged a look with the Bear, then addressed the soldier. "She's very interested in how witchers are made and would like to talk with you. Don't tire her out and when she asks you for samples, you tell her you'll give her some in a few days." Arek's eyes were fierce, Drummond was afraid to find out what would happen to him if he didn't follow instructions.

Kozin murmured, "She's just a little slip of a lass. Can't keep her under control, Arek?"

"Hah." barked Arek. size doesn't matter. She gets what she wants." The Manticore shrugged and looked fondly at his mate, a soft smile stealing over his face. "Besides, if what the boy here says is true …" He shrugged again. None of them really understood the technical points of what the geneticist was doing. "She wants you to start teaching him signs, Koz. Wants to see if he takes to it like she did."

Kozin's brows crashed over his eyes as he shot Micah a glare. HE would determine when, nay IF, Drummond was ready to learn any witcher art. For a time, he waged a war of wills with the tiny woman. She just looked back at him from across the room with an eloquent brow raised, her small form resting on a stool by the large hearthfire. The Bear knew when he had been bested and he capitulated. He thought a smile tried to ghost across her lips, but she grimaced, turning her face away to cover her battered mouth with her hand.

"Go, boy. Tell her we start yer training in the morning and ye'll visit her lab in three days." Kozin heaved a deep sigh and shook his shaggy head. He waited till Drummond had pulled up another stool before Micah and was deep in conversation before turning back to Arek. "How's she doing?"

"Getting better." Arek's hand was clamped in a white knuckled grip about his mug as he watched his mate and the boy under lowered brows.

"She going te be ok?" The Bear's question was quiet and asked after more than the woman's physical health.

Arek's scowl was eloquent and the Manticore inspected a brick in the floor for a time before sighing. "That bastard did more than just mark up her face." Ground out the big man, his eyes closing in shared pain.

Kozin's large hand came down on Arek's shoulder. "Give her time, man. Not like it was a simple creature who got hold of her. You expect THOSE te fight with everything they have an' try te kill you." His beads rattled at the side of his face when the shaggy man nodded his head. "When the monster is human there are more scars left on the inside than on the skin." A small voice in the back of his mind whispered _'I should know.'_

Drummond sat on a stool next to Micah. Her eyes held shadows and she often looked toward her mate as they talked. The young man could see she wasn't a beauty even without what would turn into a nasty scar, but she had substance. She reminded him of his grandmother, when that matriarch was still alive. The little woman quietly questioned him about his family. How many witchers had been made in his family? Did they remember where they came from after the trials? What were their names? What schools had they called home? How many generations had it been since the last witcher had been made from his line? Would he mind giving her some samples?

He answered as best he could, remembering the injunction not to overtire her.

"Well, Miss Micah, according to our tradition, I can count fifteen witchers to our line, including the witcher George of Kagen, a Griffon, who slayed the dragon." He nodded at the wall mural. "All the schools were represented and yes, they retained their memories from before their trials. According to family legend they maintained contact, as well." The young man scratched under his chin as he thought hard about his answers, trying to be as precise as possible. "Before the Bear saved my da, it had been fifty years since the last witcher of our line had been made. That would have been my great uncle Tobias. He was a Cat. For all I know he's still alive, but who knows. Nilfgaard razed the cat school, so I hear."

Micah nodded, rubbing the skin around her stitches lightly. "These men have all been direct male descendants? How long ago was the first witcher in your family?"

"Hmm Yes, direct descendants of my great great and so on grandfather. I think the first was around three hundred and fifty years ago. Da's tales had him as a Wolf named Vorden. It's been awhile since I recited the whole chain, but let me see if I can do it for you." Drummond stood and thought for some time, then began.  
"First came a Wolf, Vorden of Jonnhes. Next was the Griffon, George of Kagor, the dragon slayer. Three Vipers, brothers in blood and trials arose next, Lennet, Dorn and Fremmen were their names. Baldric and Bodraas, the twins of Gors Velen, trod Skellige as Bears, together in life as in death. Halbert ran with the Wolves . Then came Roose of Rosen, another Griffon. Lemiel went east to become a Manticore, then returned after three generations to claim Zacheus. The Cats prowled next in order Clemmer, Sharron,Vel and Tobias. The line of our family ends with me, Drummond, novitiate of the Bear."

The hall had grown silent as the young man chanted the witcher lineage of his family. When he was done, Drummond looked up, surprised to be the center of attention.

Vesemir had his chin in his hand, looking to Eskel, who nodded. "I can corroborate Vorden and Halbert. We have records reaching that far back."

Kozin nursed his pipe to glowing life with a gentle stream of igni, puffed twice and sent three smoke rings to float in the air. "I knew Baldric and Bodraas. They were in the cycle after mine." The big bear tugged on his beard, then said, "Good men. They died before their time."

Arek joined Drummond and Micah near the fire, stroking the woman's braid. "I attended Zacheus' trial of the grasses and hunted for a season with Lemiel the year he took the boy from his parents."

Micah said, "I think your lineage has been corroborated, Drummond. If you'll meet me in my lab in the morning, I would like to collect samples." The gathered company didn't actually groan out loud, but Micah's sample gathering had become a running joke amongst them.

The boy swiftly looked to the big Manticore's glowering face and said, "Kozin is going to start teaching me signs tomorrow and get me going on other training. I will definitely give you any samples you want before we leave, though."

Micah narrowed her eyes at her mate. "Engineering things for me, are you? I saw that look you sent him when he came over here." Accusingly and with some heat, she said, "He told you to say that, didn't he, Drummond!"

The woman scowled at him and the young man admitted without shame he would rather face her wrath than any of the witchers'. He shrugged and said gently, "It's only been a couple days since the fight, Miss Micah. And Koz and Arek are only looking out for you."

Micah shot a look of pure venom at Kozin, who just puffed a smoke ring in her general direction with a raised brow and an impassive face. She huffed irritably, "I'm a grown woman and I don't need a bunch of witcher nursemaids!" She stood, scowling and rubbing a hand over her eyes.

Arek shrugged eloquently then smiled fondly down at his woman. "You're damned stubborn. I know you. You'll run yourself to death unless I sit on you!"

Micah sniffed, then turned to walk out of the hall. She wouldn't admit she was nearly at the end of her proverbial and very frayed rope right now. Her head hurt, her mouth hurt and she felt Jad's death very keenly. Stiffening her spine, the little geneticist fought to keep her gait steady and dignified as she walked away. She should have known she wouldn't get far. Arek swooped in and picked her up, cradling her in his strong arms.

"Put me down!" Micah protested, slapping at Arek's shoulders. I'm just fine! I can walk on my own!"

"I see how fine you are, love. Now shut up. We're going to bed." He cradled her gently and flashed a roguish grin around the at the gathered company, bidding everyone good night. She gave his chest one more half-hearted smack then put her arms around his neck and nestled into him.

"I didn't think witchers took mates." Said Drummond, watching the pair leave.

"Then you know shite'n all." Grumbled Kozin, also following their departure with his eyes, remembering another pair a long time ago. At least Arek wouldn't have to watch Micah turn into an old woman in front of him, and die of old age. Kozin was grateful he wouldn't feel compelled to help pick up the pieces of a shattered man this time if anything happened to the small woman. He admitted to himself that he wouldn't turn his back on Arek, either, if it ever came to that. The big Bear gave himself a shake to rid himself of the maudlin thoughts and clapped the boy on the shoulder.

"We've a chess game to finish, boy." The Bear and his apprentice left the great hall in favor of the game of kings in the evening hall.

Soon, everyone had dispersed to their own rooms and the castle was left to settle down for the night, the fire in the hearth dying down to embers and shadows, like ghosts, slipping through the ruins.

* * *

The witchers worked for five days to make a horse path to the road from the ruined lower courtyard, finally clearing the way as the first of October dawned. For their part, the horses were pleased to get out of the fortress to munch the last of the dried forage around the crumbled walls. Lambert, Keira and the children found a pleasing spot to build a burial cairn for Karadin's ashes near the lake. The children were saying their final goodbye to their adopted father when Greta looked up to Lambert.  
"Papa said he hid mama from the witch hunters so they would never find her. It's too bad we don't know where he put her. They should be together now." The little girl's head tilted to the side with her thoughts. She was serious, the wish to see her parents together now evident on her little face. Lambert looked to his sorceress, at a loss how to grant this most elemental request. The wiry witcher was finding himself wrapped more and more around the smallest finger of this little girl and would do anything to see her smile.

"Hmm" Hummed Keira. "Lambert, did he talk with you or any of the other witchers about where he left her?"

"No, just that he hid her somewhere on Temple Isle after escaping." Lambert was loath to say too much in front of the children, the details that Karadin HAD shared were gruesome and not fit for their ears.

"Tolly, darling," Keira knelt, smiling, before the little boy where he was seated on a blanket before the shrine, "May I see your amulet please?" The boy passed her the cat's head medallion and looked at her curiously.

"Lambert," Murmured the blond woman as she came close to her lover so the children wouldn't overhear her, "I may not be able limit the spell to just where he left her and I don't want the children to see anything that happened before. They have nightmares enough. Would you take them to collect some pretty stones or something while I gather the necessary information?"

Lambert lead the children away, toward the shore of the lake, to find some mementos to lay on the cairn. Gathering the force that thrummed through the land in this valley, Keira focused her power through the witcher medallion in her palm, concentrating on the day Jad Karadin had escaped the torture chambers under Temple Mount. The vision sprang up and she was grateful she had sent the children away. What the Cat witcher and his wife had suffered was brutal. Keira realized then the depth of the debt she owed to Geralt for convincing her to come to Kaer Morhen at the end of summer. When the witcher and the children returned to her twenty minutes later, the blond woman brought up the edited vision in the air.

"I wonder if Geralt knows where that cave is. He said he did some exploring on those cliffs when he was in Novigrad in July. Maybe he would be willing to retrieve Letitia's remains." Lambert stared at the water of the lake rippling in the wind that breezed through the valley for a moment.

"I'll get word to Yennefer this afternoon. She and Tris had something they wished to discuss with me anyway."

Lambert smirked at his sorceress, taking her hand and pulling her forward. "Dare I ask what they have in mind?"

Keira shrugged, willingly going into his arms. "Something to do with the lodge, I suspect."

"Damn." Lambert scowled.

"I don't know that I'll do anything for them yet. I feel we had a large part in Radovid's involvement with the Church of the Eternal Flame and the witch hunters." She shivered in his arms.  
"Come on, let's get back home. Greta is getting fussy. Needs a nap or something." The witcher's lips turned up when he reflected on that word, home, as he led his sudden family back up the path to Kaer Morhen.

* * *

Micah was starting to feel more herself finally. She had been angry at Arek for keeping her in the dark about the discovery of the ancient witcher lab, but she understood why he had collaborated with the rest of the group to protect her. She felt cared for, loved by this man, cherished in a way she hadn't for many, many years.

"You took all the books, right?" Micah asked as she wandered around the cavern, inspecting implements and equipment, shaking her head as she wondered how many boys had died from simple infection, how many would have lived but for cross contamination of the instruments used to inject the mutagens. This world was a disconcerting mishmash of medieval practices and some glimmerings of modern understanding.

The Manticore nodded and asked his own question in stilted tones. "Drummond give you your samples?" Micah noticed Arek didn't like it in here. Knowing what had been involved in his trial, she didn't blame him.

"Mmmhmm. If my theory is correct, he's a carrier of the gene. At least he'll be able to pass it on, if he doesn't get himself killed." She smiled at her mate, feeling her wound stretch a little, pinching painfully. "Let's get out of here. I've seen enough and all the real information is in that library anyway. I want to be there to say goodbye to Eskel, Kozin and Drummond. They said they would be heading out today."

Walking back along the track toward the castle, the pair joined up with Lambert and Keira. Arek swung Greta into his arms, taking the weight of the sleepy child from the sorceress. Tolly insisted on walking with his crutch, determined to be tough just like the witchers. None of the adults would take that independence away from him, so they walked slowly and enjoyed the fine October morning. Arriving as the rest of the witchers and Drummond gathered in the ruins of the lower courtyard, the Wolves, Bear, Manticore and Viper spent time clasping hands and giving advice for traveling in the winter.

Micah stood beside Drummond, noting that he was kitted in a basic set of witcher chain, a close fitting black leather gambeson with a one into six pattern mail woven through the leather. The breeches, boots and gloves were of matching black leather. He wore two swords now, as well.

"How are your signs coming along, Drum?" She asked, quirking one side of her mouth up in what passed for a grin nowadays.

"I do ok with aard and igni. The others not so much. I knocked the training dummy down at seven paces this morning." He was proud of himself. Micah knew he would improve as Kozin taught him the life of the Path.

"It was the same for me. Keep practicing. It will come. Just don't drain yourself." She snorted remembering just how dangerous that was. "We un-mutated humans have to be careful with our pacing."

"There's a lot to learn. I still wish the Bear had come for me when I was small, but who knows what happened to him. Maybe I wasn't destined to follow that one, but come here for this." The boy looked around the courtyard and felt sorrow for its destruction.

The little geneticist shook her head, looking around at the men that surrounded them, watching as Greta insisted on hugging the big Bear witcher and the smaller Wolf goodbye.

"A man by the name of William Jennings Bryant once said 'Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.'" It was Tolly's turn to clasp hands with the departing witchers now. Micah's expression softened fondly at the sight of the little man eschewing hugs and snuggles for handclasps instead. They had made their peace with each other after the funeral, giving and accepting the healing of forgiveness. "Regardless how we think time and events should play out or would play out if circumstances only favor our notions, we have a choice. We can follow along with the flow like a piece of flotsam in the Pontar, or we can paddle our own boat into the delta." Kozin and Eskel were approaching them now. "I suggest you make sure to have a paddle."

The two witchers came to a halt in front of her as Drummond gave her a brotherly hug of farewell.

"Any messages you want me to pass on in Novigrad for you, Micah?" Asked Eskel as he, squeezed her shoulders briefly.

"Just let everyone know we expect them all for Yule this year, so they better deal with the hunt and kick their knickers." She gave her whole hearted smile, no matter that it hurt. Eskel smiled back and clasped hands with Arek as he stepped beside his mate.

"That goes for you and Drummond, too, Kozin." Micah said, laying a gentle hand on the shaggy witcher's arm. He was fussing with his scabbard belts and grumbling. "And if you find who you are looking for, bring them too. I refuse to acknowledge you as anything less than family."

Kozin stopped his fussing and looked down into her upturned face, then scooped her up in a big, if gentle whole body hug. She giggled as he set her down and put his hand on her shoulder.

"Been a long time since I could say I had family." He gazed at the other witchers. "Or brothers." He nodded to himself, something seeming to settle into place behind his eyes. "Ye take care o' her, Arek. Best kept secret we have." Kozin laid his other hand on Arek's shoulder, then turned for his horse.

"Come on, ye young pup. It's time te get on the road." The big bear roared as he led Eskel and Drummond out of Kaer Morhen into the fine sunshine of a beautiful October day.

 _ **Vesemir's words at the funeral are a variation of this quote from Code of the Samurai**_ **  
** _ **  
"One who is a samurai must before all things keep constantly in mind…the fact that he has to die. If he is always mindful of this, he will be able to live in accordance with the paths of loyalty and filial duty, will avoid myriads of evils and adversities, keep himself free of disease and calamity and moreover enjoy a long life. He will also be a fine personality with many admirable qualities. For existence is impermanent as the dew of evening, and the hoarfrost of morning, and particularly uncertain is the life of the warrior…"**_


	40. Epilogue

Rain poured from the sky onto the Temple district. The yard was a mess and Hemmelfart knew the bishops would have to set the neophytes to scrubbing tiles constantly to keep the temple itself clean. While the Fire purified, it was water that did all the work. The scion of the Church was weary of the rain and mud. Moreover, he was weary of having to appoint talent to head the witch hunters. Geralt of Rivia had killed Caleb Menge. Survivors accounts had corroborated that. Now, it seems, Belleville March had gotten himself done in at Kaer Morhen, trying to subdue the witchers. In fact, March had gotten a whole centurion of men and women killed in that venture and only one witcher had been eliminated. What a waste of resources.

The grossly obese Hierarch hauled his considerable bulk to to stand, then painfully waddled to the window, watching the weeping rain piss onto the city. There was so much to plan, intricacies that required the soft touch of subtlety to bring them about. Radovid would fall to the South. It was virtually assured now. Foolish boy! He had overplayed his cards. Had he used more sophistry and less force, he could have milked the war for years yet, solidifying the Church's power base in the North. But, instead of being entrenched like a bloated tick, they had barely gotten their teeth into the skin of the nations. The third Northern War was ending, that was certain. What the Church and the hunters needed now was a fourth war. Var Emris had shown the way when he'd had that witcher murder Henslet and Foltest.

Yes, another war was called for. It was for the good of the masses after all. They needed the guidance of the fire in these dark times. Cyrus Engelkind Hemmelfart smiled as only a man can who knows he is utterly righteous and has been given leave to act for the divine in any way he chooses. The fat man turned to the candidate he was currently interviewing for the vacant position as Witch Hunter Commandant. This one had some potential, the hierarch nodded to himself. He had all the ambition of Menge and March, but it was tempered with patience and guile. He was also supremely soft spoken, a man who knew how to lead from the shadows. That was a strength in these trying times.

Well, there were still candidates to interview. In the meantime, Hemmelfart had favors to call in, kingdoms to topple and a war to rekindle.


	41. Author's Note

Thank you everyone for reading my story. Yes, a sequel is in the works and I've 2 chapters already written and awaiting beta-reading. Keep your eyes peeled for "Witcher's Blood", and we'll all find out how our heroes beat the witch hunters and save the day!


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